


The Family Business

by bluesailor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Action/Adventure, Alternate Season/Series 01, Alternate Universe, Angst, Big Brother Dean, Brother Feels, Case Fic, Demonic Possession, Drama, Early Pilot Draft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Gen, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Protective Dean, Psychic Sam, Samulet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 51,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4423628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesailor/pseuds/bluesailor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their mother died in a mysterious car accident when Sam and Dean were adolescents. Now, twelve years later, the brothers are on a quest to find her killer—before the killer finds Sam. </p><p>Season 1 AU based on the early draft of the pilot episode available through the Supernatural Wiki. You don’t need to have read that to understand this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I found the early pilot draft a fascinating reading experience, and it made me wonder what the show would have been like if that had been the first episode. This is what I came up with. I've changed some details, but for the most part I tried to stay true to what was already there.
> 
> A thousand thanks to the wonderful RiverSongTam for her help on this story!

Sam dodges the fist swinging toward his head, only to run straight into a blow to the kidney from his opponent's knee. He grunts, staggers, manages to regain his balance just in time to block a sucker punch to the gut. A second punch follows close on the first, and Sam fades back just out of reach. In the split second his opponent takes to recover, Sam manages to seize his outstretched arm, twist, toss him to the ground, and pin him.

"Gotcha!" Sam crows happily, not caring one bit that his weight is probably crushing the air out of Dean's lungs.

They're in a small patch of scraggly brown grass under an overpass in Oregon, hidden from the road behind the thick concrete supports. Ever since Sam decided to join Dean in what Dean calls "the life," they've been stopping at every likely-looking overpass for "training." Sam was quick to master all the different types of knives and guns Dean has packed under a false bottom in the trunk of the Impala, but he's only recently started to come out on top in their sparring matches, so he figures he's entitled to a little gloating. He therefore doesn't shift at all when Dean flails a bit under him. This turns out to be a mistake. Before Sam knows what's happening, Dean has hooked a leg around his and heaved the two of them over.

"Don't be so sure of that, little brother," he smirks from where he's now sitting on Sam's stomach.

Sam shoves him off and sits up. "I beat you, admit it."

"How do you know I didn't just let you win to be nice?"

"Because you're not nice?"

"What?" Dean yelps in mock outrage, pausing in brushing dust off his clothes to fix Sam with a wounded expression. "I'm a joy to be around."

"Oh yeah," says Sam, rolling his eyes. "Who wouldn't love loud music in the car, or greasy fast food wrappers all over the motel rooms. Not to mention your choices in television viewing."

"Hey,  _Dr. Sexy, MD_  is quality programming," says Dean as they get back into the Impala, parked in the shadows next to a concrete column. "And you're going to have to get used to it if you want to help me work this case."

Sam perks up at that. "You mean I get to actually help this time?"

If Sam thought, when he got into Dean's car back in Palo Alto four months ago, that he was going to be included on Dean's hunts he had been wrong; he'd spent every single one of them holed up in whatever crappy motel they were staying at that week, sealed in with not just a deadbolt and chain, but also with rock salt lining the door and windows, strange sigils drawn on the walls, and creepy little bags of dried herbs and animal bones tucked into the corners. The first time he saw this, Sam might have reverted to thinking Dean was crazy, except that he'd just been attacked by a ghost on a lonely stretch of highway, and if it wasn't for Dean he wouldn't be alive to read the journal that belonged to their father enough times to know it by heart. No matter how many times he reads it, though, he still can't seem to get used to the stares of the creepy eyes doodled all over the pages. On the paper they're just black, but Sam knows from experience that the real version is just empty. Bottomless. And they're only the first of many scary, impossible things Sam now has to accept as real.

Sitting alone in a motel room while Dean is off killing monsters certainly leaves a  _lot_ of time for reading.

"Yeah, Sammy," says Dean in response to Sam's question. "I think you  _might_  be ready."

"It's Sam," he corrects, but he's too distracted by the prospect of a case to act properly offended at the nickname. Dean's excuse for not letting Sam join him on the hunt for the last two months is that Sam isn't "ready"—no weapons experience, no combat training, no knowledge of the supernatural. In fact, according to Dean, the only useful thing Sam learned at Stanford is his research skills.  _Those_  Dean has been taking full advantage of, much to Sam's irritation.

"So, what is it? What's the case?" Sam asks. He tries not to sound too childishly eager, but judging from the way Dean smirks at him, he doesn't entirely succeed.

"You'll see when we get there," says Dean, more serious now. "It's not anything big. You're still a rookie, you know."

"A rookie who is no longer going to be sitting around doing your research."

Dean pokes him in the shoulder. "You love research, college nerd."

Sam thinks the insult shouldn't sting so much by now; he's been listening to it for weeks, after all. Even longer if you count the summer before he started at Stanford. But now is not the time to start acting like a baby over petty jibes, so he just says, "Yeah, you better learn to love it, cause you're going to be spending a lot more time in the library from now on."

Dean gives Sam an appraising look as he pulls the Impala back onto the road. "Let's just see how this case goes, first."

*S*P*N*

Sam isn't very impressed when he finds out what the case is.

"Ballet slippers," he says blankly from the passenger seat, as Dean slides into the driver's side. They've just managed to slip out of the Portland police station without anyone noticing that they swiped a pair of— "Cursed. Ballet slippers."

Dean glares at him, and then at the evidence bag in his hands, containing a pair of innocent-looking pink ballet slippers. They aren't nearly as innocent as they appear, though. Dean remembers the police photos in vivid, grisly detail. The ballerina who had been wearing them had danced until her feet were nothing more than bloody, mangled stumps, and had bled out quietly on the floor with the mysteriously unsullied shoes arranged neatly a few feet away.

Dean shakes his head, distracted. He'd intended to say something to Sam, but he can't quite remember what it was at the moment. He's sidetracked by the color of the slippers. They really are a mesmerizing shade of pink, all satiny and sleek and perfect….

Sam bursts out laughing.

Dean tears his eyes away from the slippers to glare at him again. "What's so funny?"

"You," gasps Sam. "You—oh my God. You've got an urge to try them on, don't you?"

"This isn't a joke, Sam!" snaps Dean. "These things are dangerous."

He says it in the most matter-of-fact tone he can muster, but Sam only laughs harder. He pulls the evidence bag out of Dean's hands and waves the slippers annoyingly in front of his face.

"What's the matter? Afraid you wouldn't look good in a tutu?"

Dean bats the slippers away, scowling. "It's  _not_  funny."

Sam's smile fades, and he sighs. "I can't believe we're actually working this case. This is all you thought I could handle?"

He fiddles with the evidence bag as he speaks. With a thrill of fear, Dean sees his fingers pulling absently at the plastic zipper holding the bag closed, and he snatches it out of Sam's hands and chucks it into the backseat.

"Clearly you can't even handle this," he says sourly, starting up the car.

"I just thought I was supposed to be helping you find Mom's killer," says Sam over the roar of the engine. "Not risking arrest to steal ballet slippers."

"I don't need your help if all you're gonna do is goof off," Dean snaps.

Sam subsides into a sullen silence as Dean takes them out of Portland. Soon, they're cruising down a narrow, twisting country road, heading for an abandoned church they'd scouted out earlier. The slippers' curse can only be broken by ritual burning on hallowed ground, and it isn't usually advisable to perform spells or rituals where someone might notice and think they're devil-worshippers.

As they near the church, Dean peers sidelong at Sam, who hasn't said a word since they left the police station. He's staring out of the side window, the setting sun throwing orange gleams over his face and hair, glinting off the bronze amulet he wears around his neck.

"You should take that thing off while we're on a case," Dean says of the amulet. He tries to sound casual, but it comes out a little strained. "It might get caught on something during a fight."

Sam snorts. "I don't think we're going to be fighting anything on  _this_  case, do you?"

Dean clenches his teeth. Sam can really be a pissy little bitch when he wants to, especially when he doesn't have any business sulking. Stanford isn't the greatest preparation for the life, but surely a summa cum laude graduate like Sam should be smart enough to realize the danger, and to realize that Dean is just trying to keep him safe. Of course, Dean has to admit that Sam would probably be a lot more aware of the danger if he hadn't kept the last page of their father's journal from him.

"Still," Dean says, forcing himself to speak normally. "You should at least tuck it under your shirt, or something, just in case." Sam says nothing at that, so he continues, "I can't believe you even still wear it."

"Mom gave it to me," Sam reminds him, as if Dean had forgotten. As if that one fact explains everything. He makes no move to either remove the amulet or tuck it away. Dean shakes his head and gives up for the moment.

They don't say a word to each other the rest of the way to the church, or while they survey the churchyard for a good spot for their ritual, or while they dig a small pit in which to burn the slippers, or while they carve the necessary symbols into the ground surrounding the pit and set out the herbs that must be thrown into the fire, working by flashlight in the gathering dusk. Dean's voice is hoarse when he finally breaks the silence with, "Go get the slippers."

Sam huffs, probably annoyed at being given an order, and stomps off to the car. Dean sighs, and returns to checking the lines they've drawn in the dirt. When he's satisfied that everything is correct, he lights the fire, and carefully places the bundles of sage, mallowsweet, and rue into the flames. Then he looks around for the slippers. That's when he realizes Sam hasn't come back from the car.

Dean whips around, heart pounding. The car is only about a fifty yards away; Sam should have been able to walk there and back several times over in the time it took Dean to get the fire started. The sun has fully set now, and the light from the fire makes the surrounding darkness seem completely impenetrable by contrast. Dean shines the beam of his flashlight in the direction of the Impala, scanning the churchyard carefully, and, to his immense relief, he spots Sam lurking next to an old gravestone just outside the circle of firelight.

"Sam?" Dean calls. "Come on, you wanna do the honors?"

But Sam doesn't move. Dean starts to panic again. He leaps forward, one hand keeping the flashlight trained on Sam, the other brushing against the handle of the old Colt revolver he always keeps tucked into his waistband. He reaches Sam in a matter of seconds, and shines the light directly into his face. His eyes are unfocused, and hardly blink at the sudden brightness.

"Sam?"

A crinkle of plastic causes Dean to look down. Sam is holding the evidence bag with the slippers—sliding the zipper open and reaching inside.

With a growl, Dean knocks the bag out of Sam's grip and onto the ground. The movement seems to bring Sam back to his senses.

"Dean—what—?"

Dean doesn't pause to answer him. He snatches up the evidence bag, sprints back to the fire, and upends the slippers into the flames. A great flare of sparks shoots up as the pink satin blackens. Only when he is certain that the slippers will burn into ash does Dean turn to Sam, who followed him back to the fireside.

"Want to explain to me what happened back there?" he asks, fixing Sam with an accusatory stare.

Sam looks abashed. "I don't know. I grabbed the slippers, and I was heading back to you, and—"

"—and you weren't paying attention, and the curse got to you," Dean finishes roughly. "Dammit, Sam, if I can't trust you with a pair of freaking ballet slippers how am I supposed to trust you with a monster?" His voice cracks slightly on the last word, and Sam gives him an odd look. Dean wills his expression to remain steady, though his insides are fluttering with fear. If the kid doesn't watch out, he's going to get himself killed, or taken, or whatever the warning in the journal was supposed to mean. "You don't even know how to take care of yourself."

Dean stops, presses his lips together, silently cursing as Sam's eyes narrow.

"I took care of myself just fine while I was at Stanford," he says coldly, and the words hit Dean like ghostly, invisible blows. He opens his mouth to speak—whether to apologize or continue arguing, he isn't sure—but before he can say anything, the shrill ring of a cell phone cuts through the air, making them both jump.

"Don't tell me that's your  _girlfriend_  again," Dean groans. He thought—or maybe hoped—that Sam and Jessica's "long-distance" relationship would fizzle out before long, but they still call each other with what he deems irritating frequency.

Sam pulls his phone out of his pocket and stares at it for a moment, his bemused expression telling Dean that whoever is on the other end of the line, it isn't Jessica. Sam flips the phone open to answer.

"Hello?"

Dean can hear a voice speaking through the cell phone's tinny speaker, but can't make out the words.

"Yes, that's me," Sam says in response to the other person's query. The muffled voice starts up again, and Sam's frown deepens. "What? Oh, God…." Even by the dying light of the fire and the glow of his flashlight, Dean can see that Sam's face has drained of color. "Yeah. No, I'll... _we'll_  be there tomorrow. Thanks for calling." He hangs up, and stares at the phone with the same unfocused expression he had when the curse was working on him.

"Sam?" Dean asks tentatively.

Sam looks up at him, but the unfocused expression remains. "That was the police," he says. "From Utah. Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Tommy…they're dead."


	2. Chapter 2

Sam peers down at the cold, pale bodies laid out for identification at the mortuary. He knows, objectively, that they are his Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Tommy, but he can’t seem to reconcile the people who took him and Dean in after their mother’s death and their father’s abandonment, who supported him through college, who cried at his graduation only a few months ago, with the lifeless gray shells lying before him. They look like the cadavers he dissected in his Anatomy and Physiology class at Stanford, not like his aunt and uncle.

The coroner only draws the sheet covering each body down far enough for the faces to be visible, but even so, Sam glimpses the sickly purple bruising around each of their necks. The sight ignites a spark of anger that melts through his numb shock. He looks across the morgue to Dean, whose eyes are as bloodshot and shadowed with tiredness as Sam knows his own must be; they drove for nearly twenty-four hours straight to get here to identify their aunt and uncle’s bodies. Dean meets Sam’s gaze grimly, and Sam knows he’s seen the bruising, too.

Cheryl and Tommy’s house is marked as a crime scene, but after a little pleading, the police agree to let Sam and Dean in, ostensibly to collect a few personal possessions before everything is put up for public auction. Ducking under the police tape and into the foyer, though, the thought of claiming any personal possessions from here seems odd to Sam; everything he needs in the world is already out in the Impala. He hadn’t noticed how accustomed he’s already become to living out of a car.

The house is exactly as Sam remembers it, except that it feels foreign, alien, without the sounds of Cheryl clattering around in the kitchen, or Tommy watching TV in the living room. It feels like it’s been years since he set foot here, not months. With a pang, he remembers how wistful Cheryl sounded the last time he spoke to her, asking him when he’d be coming home again. He’d put her off with some vague excuse, taking it for granted that there would be plenty of time to visit later. His mother’s death should have taught him not to do that, he thinks, desperately blinking away the burning sensation at the corners of his eyes.

Sam moves from the kitchen to the dining room to the living room, a little unnerved by how undisturbed everything is, nothing to give any indication of the violent deaths that took place here. Then, in the living room, he spots something amiss. A framed picture that usually sits on the mantelpiece is smashed on the hearth. Sam goes over and pokes gingerly at the glass. The photo underneath is of a much-younger version of himself, smiling widely, the bronze amulet that he still wears gleaming on his chest. There’s something sad about seeing that happy picture lying in the ruins of its frame, so Sam looks back up at the mantel. There are many other pictures there, pictures of Dean and Cheryl and Tommy, pictures of John and Mary too, but the one of Sam is the only one to have fallen.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice filters down from the bedrooms upstairs. Glad for a distraction, Sam abandons the photo collection and rushes up to him.

Dean is standing by the window in Cheryl and Tommy’s room.

“What is it? You find something?” Sam asks from the doorway.

Dean beckons him over. Sam joins him at the window, and Dean points silently to the windowsill, his jaw tightly clenched. Sam peers closer, then runs a finger along the wood, coming away with a faint residue of yellow powder on his skin.

“ _Sulfur?_ Dad’s journal said that’s a sign of—”

“Demons,” says Dean tightly. “Yep.”  

Dean appears perfectly satisfied with this conclusion, but Sam shakes his head. “Why would demons come after Cheryl and Tommy?”

Dean shrugs, still staring at the window. “Why did that thing that killed Mom come after her?”

"You think...you think there’s a connection?” Sam asks, an icy feeling settling in his gut.

“Let’s find out,” says Dean, looking suddenly determined. He’s out of the bedroom and down the hall before Sam can ask where he’s going.

Sam catches up to him in the room that Tommy used as a home office, fiddling with the antique writing desk at the far wall, which Tommy always kept locked. Sam’s learned, over the last four months, that Dean never goes anywhere without a set of lockpicks, so he’s not surprised when the lid of the desk springs open a couple of seconds later.

“What are we looking for?” he asks, peering over Dean’s shoulder at the mess of papers inside the desk.

“Don’t know yet,” Dean says distractedly, rifling through a sheaf of financial documents.

Sam starts pulling out the small drawers lining the inside of the desk. He finds nothing but office supplies and loose change.

“Hey, check it out.” Dean is pointing to a carved rosette on the top edge of the desk. Sam is about to ask him what’s so special about that when he notices that it’s oddly raised.

Dean presses it, and the whole bottom panel of the desk springs free from its mooring.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam sputters, staring. “What is this, _Sherlock Holmes_ or something?”

Dean grins and claps him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the life, my dear Watson.”

Sam makes a face at Dean, pulls the secret drawer all the way open, and recoils in disgust.

“Uh, Dean?” he says, looking down at the contents of the drawer. “Please tell me our uncle was not a sadistic animal torturer.”

The drawer is full of a jumble of small white animal bones, feathers, bundles of dried plants, and scraps of twine. Dean reaches out and picks up one of the bones, examining it closely. It looks like the metatarsal of a cat.

“If he was killing animals, I don’t think it was for fun,” says Dean. “This is all stuff you can use to make hex bags.”

“For protection?” Sam asks, recalling a page of their father’s journal.

Dean tosses the animal bone back into the drawer with a clatter, his eyes blazing. “They were trying to protect themselves from something supernatural. Using magic.”

“So they knew about that stuff,” says Sam slowly.

Suddenly, Dean is on the move again. Sam can hear his footsteps retreating down the hall back to the bedrooms, the sound of a closet door opening, and Dean rummaging around. He’s back soon enough, an old duffel bag in his hands. He brings the bag straight over to the desk and starts emptying the secret drawer haphazardly into it.

“We gotta get this stuff out of here before the police find it,” he says as he works. “You go through the first floor, see if you can find any more stashes. I’ll look around up here.”

Now that he’s aware of their presence, Sam seems to find a hex bag nearly everywhere he looks—stuffed at the back of drawers, under couch cushions, behind books on the bookshelves. He also finds packets of a strange gray dust, which he recognizes from John’s journal as goofer dust, tucked between the books, and bags of rock salt in the pantry. He brings it all back upstairs and tips it into the duffel just as Dean is finishing his inspection of the room that used to be his bedroom. Sam zips the duffel closed and looks over at Dean. He’s staring at the opposite wall, his expression unreadable.

“Dean?” Sam asks tentatively. He doesn’t really know what to say. Strange as it was for Sam to come back to this house now that Cheryl and Tommy are gone, he realizes abruptly that it must have been even stranger for Dean, who hasn’t set foot here since he left, just after Sam went to Stanford.

Dean shakes himself visibly and grabs the duffel, not looking at Sam. “Come on, we’d better split.”

Sam has been bracing himself for the moment when they would have to leave the house for good, expecting it to be just as painful as it was to leave the house in Kansas after their mother died. But as he follows Dean down the stairs and out the door, he’s surprised to find that he doesn’t feel anything but an eagerness to get back to the Impala; it’s like he’s heading home after an extended visit in a stranger’s house.

Dean is silent as they drive to a motel in town, silent as they check in, silent as they bring their bags to the room and settle at the tiny motel table to eat the fast food dinner they picked up on the way. Sam is desperate to discuss what they’ve learned; his own mind is whirling faster than a spinning top, but Dean looks so remote he doesn’t know if he should dare break the silence. When they finish eating, Dean pulls a bottle of whiskey from one of his bags, uncaps it, and takes a swig before offering it to Sam, who accepts; if he can’t give voice to the tidal wave of thoughts in his head, maybe the alcohol will help quieten them. All it really seems to do, though, is make it harder not to talk, and eventually, a thought hits him with such force that he can’t help saying it aloud.  

“So I was the last to know.”

Sam thinks Dean might have started at the sound of his voice, except that Dean is never startled. Still, he does look distinctly wary as he raises his eyes from the whiskey bottle and asks, “The last to know what?”

“About monsters and stuff,” Sam clarifies. “The supernatural. All of you knew, you and Dad and Cheryl and Tommy, but nobody thought _I_ should know. I guess none of you thought I could _handle_ it.”

Dean doesn’t react to Sam’s snippy tone, doesn’t even roll his eyes. He just returns his gaze to the bottle and says dully, “If it makes you feel better, Cheryl and Tommy never told me, either.” He shakes his head. “They lied straight to our faces all that time, they kept us away from Dad, when they knew _all along_ —”

“They couldn’t’ve kept us away from Dad if he’d _wanted_ us to be with him,” argues Sam. “Well. Apparently he wanted _you,”_ he amends, his throat tightening the way it always does when he thinks about John and Dean, hunting together for four years without a word to Sam. “I’m not surprised Dad didn’t tell me,” Sam continues with some difficulty. “But _you_ could’ve.”

“Hey, Dad tried,” says Dean, shrugging. His eyes look oddly bright. “He did try. You didn’t wanna listen.”  

Sam’s head is starting to hurt from the whiskey and the incessant whirl of his thoughts. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and kneads his knuckles into his forehead.  “Cheryl and Tommy—they were trying to protect us.”

“And Dad wasn’t?”

Sam doesn’t have a response to that, so he grabs the bottle and takes another swig of whiskey.

“Sam?” Dean asks, after they’ve passed the bottle back and forth a few more times in silence. “You get that...that’s what I was trying to do, too, right? On the hunt yesterday?”

Sam sets the nearly-empty bottle back onto the table. “I get that this is a dangerous life. Never know what might be comin’, do you?”

Dean looks suddenly disconcerted, though Sam can’t imagine why. “No, you don’t,” he says, after a moment, looking directly into Sam’s eyes.

Sam has a feeling that Dean is trying to communicate something important with that look, but he’s too tired and drunk to figure it out now. He draws in a deep breath and continues, “Guess I shouldn’t have made fun of you for wanting to try on the ballet slippers.”

Dean’s intense expression disappears as he snorts, rolling his eyes. But the corners of his mouth twitch, and Sam lets out his breath.

“Yeah, well, you were the one who was actually going to do it, Uncle Drosselmeyer.”

They lapse into silence again for a few more minutes, until Sam asks, “So what are we going to do now?”

Dean stirs himself out of a reverie. “Soon as we’re up tomorrow, we’ll head over to South Dakota,” he replies. “I know someone there who might be able to give us some info. He knows about demons...and if there is a connection between this demon and whatever freak killed Mom, we’ll need his help to catch it.”

Sam nods, glad for once to be following Dean’s lead. He doesn’t say anything about the fact that they’ll be skipping town before the funeral. Whether or not John was trying to protect him and Dean by leaving them, Sam reflects that he can see at least one reason for it.

Hunting doesn’t wait for family obligations.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are interested, you can find a link to the early draft of the pilot episode in the Supernatural Wiki article on the pilot, under "Sides, Scripts, and Transcripts." :)

Dean jolts awake before the sun has really risen the next morning. Sam is tossing back and forth on the other bed. Dean sits up carefully to look at him in the half-light. He’s asleep; his eyes are squeezed shut and flickering under the lids. Another bad dream, probably—he’s been having them pretty regularly for the last couple of weeks. Dean doesn’t blame him; they’ve certainly been swimming through enough nightmare fuel in the last forty-eight hours alone. He falls back onto his bed, listening to Sam’s thrashing. The first time he heard Sam having a nightmare, he decided not to wake him or try to comfort him, afraid that Sam would interpret such a gesture as Dean thinking he can’t _handle_ it, and he’s kept to that decision every night since then. Much as he tries to pretend he doesn’t notice, though, he finds the sounds of his brother’s distress impossible to ignore.

Sam gives a soft whimper, and Dean clenches his fists uselessly in the bedclothes. Then, restless now that he’s awake, he gets up and makes his way to the bathroom. He doesn’t bother to prevent the door from slamming behind him. If Sam wakes himself up at the noise, well, that’s not Dean’s fault, is it?

Sure enough, Sam’s eyes are open and blinking dazedly when he comes back out into the room.

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean asks.

“It’s Sam,” he answers, his features already threatening full bitch-mode. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Good,” says Dean, keeping his voice light, “‘cause we gotta hit the road. Up and at ‘em, Sleeping Beauty.”

Sam groans, but, to Dean’s relief, he gets out of bed and starts re-packing his bag without making a fuss. Half an hour later, they’re settled in the Impala, sipping large coffees and heading out of Utah. Dean expects Sam to complain about having to miss the funeral, but he stays quiet, studying the road map spread out across his knees.

It’s a fourteen-hour drive to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, but their early start and Dean’s strategic driving (“strategic” is Dean’s word; Sam calls it “reckless”) means it’s only early evening when Dean pulls under a wrought-iron arch bearing the words, “Singer Auto Salvage.”

Sam looks around curiously at the haphazard rows of wrecked cars lining the yard. “Your friend’s a mechanic? I thought he was a hunter.”

“The cars are just his day job,” says Dean as the ramshackle farmhouse comes into view. He steers up to the front of the house and parks the car a short distance away. They both get out, and Dean pauses for a moment to stretch cramped muscles, relaxing for the first time since identifying Cheryl and Tommy’s bodies. He’d been feeling pretty lost that whole day, despite the familiar location; normally, he would have followed John’s lead in a situation like this. But John is gone, and Dean has to go his own direction now. He thinks he could have done much worse than coming here.

“You sure he’s home?” Sam asks, staring at the dark porch. “There’s no lights on.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” says Dean. “Come on.” He leads the way up the front steps and raps on the door. “Bobby? It’s me.”

“We’ll see about that,” a gruff voice responds from inside. The porch light turns on suddenly, making both Sam and Dean blink and squint. Then the letter box creaks open, and something falls to the porch floor with a loud clang. “You know the drill,” says the voice.

Dean scoops up the object from the floor. It’s a small flask. “Humanity check,” he explains to Sam, unable to suppress a grin at his brother’s confusion. Sam may have a fancy degree from a fancy college, but he’s still at kindergarten level when it comes to hunting. Dean opens the flask and splashes the liquid inside over his hand, making sure he’s in full view of the door as he does so. “Holy water. And the flask is pure silver.” He hands it over to Sam, who mimics his hand-splashing routine without comment and hands it back.

A second later, the deadbolt scrapes back, and the door opens to reveal a scruffy, beer-bellied man in a dirty baseball cap. “I’d been wondering when you were gonna show up,” he says to Dean. “Come on in. You must be Sam,” he adds, nodding as Sam follows Dean into the kitchen.

“Yessir,” says Sam, obviously a little taken aback, but he sticks out his hand, and Bobby shakes it gravely.

“Heard a lot about ya, Sam,” he says, with a glance at Dean. Sam glances at Dean too, looking puzzled.

“We were hoping you could help us with a case,” Dean says hurriedly.

“I’ll do what I can,” says Bobby, opening the ancient fridge, pulling out three beers, and setting them on the kitchen table. There’s a pause while Sam and Dean shrug out of their jackets, and they all sit down and open their drinks. Then he continues, “I heard about your daddy awhile back. I’m sorry.”

Dean opens his mouth, knowing he should say something to thank Bobby for his concern, but his vocal cords seem to have suddenly gone on strike.

“Our aunt and uncle were just killed, too,” Sam pipes up, to Dean’s relief, before the silence becomes too drawn-out.

“Then I’m sorry about that, too. They hunters?”

“We didn’t think so,” says Dean darkly, taking a long pull from his beer.

Bobby raises his eyebrows. “But?”

“But we found sulphur at their house, and materials for hex bags.”

“Damn.” Bobby shakes his head. “Your family sure loves keepin’ secrets from each other, don’t they?”

“You didn’t know them?” asks Dean, ignoring this. “Cheryl and Tommy?”

“I know a lotta hunters, but not them. Don’t mean they weren’t in the life, though.” Bobby directs a sharp look at Dean. “You startin’ to notice a pattern with your family members?”

“You mean aside from lying, keeping secrets, and running out on the rest of us?” mutters Dean.

“Getting killed?” says Sam softly from the chair beside him. Dean looks over at him, but he’s staring down at the table, spinning his amulet on its cord.

“Getting killed _by something supernatural,_ ” says Bobby, and Sam looks up.

“So you think there’s a connection, too?”

“Almost definitely,” Bobby confirms. “And I’ll tell you what else I think. I think it was a hellhound killed your mother.”

“A hellhound?” says Sam, frowning as he watches Bobby take a long drink from his beer bottle.

“Yep,” says Bobby, setting down his bottle with a clunk. “A hellhound’s about the only thing that coulda tore into her like that. Only part that don’t make sense is that John saw it—they’re usually invisible unless they’re comin’ after you.”

“I saw it, too,” says Sam quickly. “In the car, while they were driving away.”

“Did you, now?” says Bobby, with a speculative glance at Sam.

“And anyway, there’s nothing on hellhounds in Dad’s journal,” Sam continues.

Dean, though, has a sudden vision of the eyes doodled on every page of the journal. Solid black, glaring. Predatory. He shivers.

“Ain’t surprised,” grunts Bobby. “John wasn’t very happy with me when I mentioned it to him.”

“Why not?”

“He didn’t like the implication.”

“You mean, that she made a deal with a crossroads demon? Sold her soul?” asks Dean. It would explain why John had never mentioned hellhounds to him.

Sam, he notes, looks just as furious as John probably did at the suggestion.

“That’s ridiculous,” he sputters. “She didn’t know about demons. She couldn’t have made a deal with one.”

Dean can’t help rolling his eyes at this. For as quick is Sam is to believe the worst of John, beware the person who believes anything but the best of Mary. “Cheryl and Tommy knew about demons,” Dean points out. “If they knew, why not Mom?”

“What would Mom have sold her soul for, Dean?” asks Sam, rolling his own eyes. “We had everything we wanted.”

“Maybe we didn’t, as far as she was concerned,” says Dean, lacing his fingers tightly around his beer bottle. He wants to form them into a fist, and punch something. What had they been lacking, back then? They had a house, a yard, two cars. Each other.

Like Sam said, everything.

“Point is,” Bobby interrupts loudly, “it had to be a hellhound. The eyes John saw, and the way it tore into her—nothin’ else coulda done that. And there had to be a demon controlling that hellhound, whether she made a deal or not. And now a demon got your aunt and uncle. You ask me, that ain’t no coincidence.”

Sam subsides a little, turning back to Bobby, though his face is still pinched in that bitchy expression with which Dean is so familiar. “Well, Dad was apparently pretty far off the trail if he was looking for the killer, then,” he says. “According to his journal he never tangled with more than one or two demons. Although,” he adds sourly, now staring determinedly down at his beer, “the journal might not be the most reliable source.”

“Which is why we came here in the first place,” Dean tells Bobby, with another eye roll in Sam’s direction. “Trouble is, we don’t know too much about demons, so we’re gonna need help if we’re gonna be hunting ‘em.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Bobby says after only a split second’s pause. He pushes back his chair and stands up, leaving his empty beer bottle on the table. “Come into my library.”

“You have a _library?_ ” Sam asks, sounding impressed, as he and Dean rise to follow. Dean has to restrain himself from yet another eye roll.

“Sure do,” says Bobby, a note of pride in his voice. “You tend to collect lore when you’ve been in the life as long as I have.”  He leads them into what clearly used to be a living room, before the old leather couch was shoved aside to make room for a desk and shelves. He waves a hand at the large bookcase behind the desk. “All of that’s lore on demons. They’re my specialty.”

“Why demons?” asks Sam.

Bobby’s face hardens briefly. “Let’s just say I got a personal grudge against the bastards,” he says. Sam doesn’t pursue the topic.

“But not too many demons ever make it topside, do they?” Dean inquires.

“No, and that’s lucky, ‘cause they’re nasty,” says Bobby. He pulls a large, age-blackened book from its shelf and plunks it onto the desk. “If you boys are goin’ after demons, you need to be able to protect yourselves, because once a demon gets into you, it ain’t comin’ out again easy.”

“You mean possession?” asks Sam, sounding faintly disgusted.

“All they need’s a second of you not paying attention,” Bobby confirms with a nod, rifling through the pages of the book. “Fear, emotional weakness, whatever. They’ll take advantage. They can’t cross salt lines, but those work even less well with demons than they do with spirits. Hex bags are good, but they ain’t infallible—as your aunt and uncle found out. Holy water burns ‘em, but it won’t do lasting damage. What you really need,” he says emphatically, opening a page and flipping the book around to face Sam and Dean, “is a way to trap ‘em.”

They both lean forward to examine the page, upon which is displayed a pentagram enclosed in a circle, with squiqqly sigils etched into the spaces between the lines.

“Get a demon in one of these, and it’ll be stuck as long as the lines remain unbroken. Then you can perform an exorcism.” Bobby flips to another section of the book, and taps a passage in Latin. “Memorize that.”

“What happens to the person the demon was possessing?” asks Sam, scanning the Latin verses.

“They live, or they die,” says Bobby simply. He pauses, then says in a gruffer voice than usual, “Mostly they die.”

Sam looks horrified, but Dean has other concerns.

“If these sons of bitches are inside people, how are we supposed to know when one is around before it attacks us? We can’t really go around splashing everyone with holy water.”

“Don’t have to use holy water,” says Bobby. “A possessed person will flinch at the name of God. Best to say it in Latin— _Christo_.”

To Dean’s annoyance, the conversation is interrupted at this point by the shrill ring of Sam’s cell phone.

“It’s Jess,” Sam says, pulling the phone from his pocket and looking at the caller ID. “Sorry, I’d better take this.” He stands up and walks back out to the kitchen, flipping the phone open. “Hey baby,” Dean hears him say. “Sorry I haven’t called….”

“That his girlfriend on the phone?” Bobby asks, foiling Dean’s attempt to eavesdrop. “He ain’t broke up with her yet?”

“Nope,” says Dean shortly. There are few topics he wants to discuss less than Sam’s love life.

“He’ll have to, sooner or later, ya know.”

“Or he’ll go back to her.”

“He can’t do that. Not unless he wants whatever’s after him comin’ after her, too.”

Dean fingers the torn-out page of John’s journal he keeps folded in his pocket. He should have known Bobby would know about that. “So, this devil’s trap, any special material it needs to be drawn in?” he asks, pulling the book with the diagram towards him.

Bobby refuses to let the matter drop. “You didn’t tell him yet?” he says incredulously.

“The hardest part would be getting the demon into it, probably,” says Dean, staring determinedly at the diagram. “I mean, they’re not gonna just walk into it, are they?”

“What was I just sayin’ about how your family loves keepin’ secrets?” growls Bobby.

The urge to punch something is back. Dean slams the book shut, forgetting his change-the-subject tactic. “What am I supposed to tell him?” he demands in a whisper, casting a glance over his shoulder towards the kitchen in case Sam is coming back. “That the supernatural freak that killed our mom—and our dad—is coming after him, but I don’t know why or what it is?”

“You know _now,_ don’t ya?” Bobby points out.

“Oh, great, yeah,” snaps Dean. “I can tell him a demon is coming after him, but I don’t know why or which demon it is. Oh, and while I’m at it, I can mention that the only reason I know it’s after him is because Dad left me a note right before he died.” Dean gives a humorless chuckle. “That’s not vague or creepy at all. I’m sure he’ll be perfectly trusting of that.”

“Of course he’ll trust you,” says Bobby, as though any thought otherwise would be lunacy. “You’re his brother, ain’t you?”

Dean snorts. “Wasn’t that long ago he thought I was cuckoo for cocoa puffs.” He gets up from his chair at the desk and flops down instead on the couch. “Bobby, when I told him Dad was dead he thought _I_ had killed him.”

“Well, obviously he came ‘round.”

“Yeah, and it took a ghost attack and a chat with a serial killer.” Dean sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I can’t risk telling him yet.”

Bobby shakes his head. “But you’ll risk that girlfriend of his, huh?”

Dean shifts a little, suddenly uncomfortable on the couch. Bobby’s got an impressive bitchface—although it’s nothing compared to Sam’s. “I’ll just have to—hey, Sam,” he breaks off as Sam emerges from the kitchen.

“Hey,” says Sam, his eyes flickering between Dean and Bobby. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” says Dean quickly, jumping to his feet. “I was just waiting for you to get done so we could get going.”

“Already?” says Sam, sounding confused. “But I hardly got to look through any of these books.”

“Thought you weren’t on research duty anymore,” Dean remarks, pulling his lips back into what he hopes is a grin. It must not work very well, because Sam frowns at him. “Come on, it’s getting late,” Dean insists, nudging Sam back out into the kitchen and handing him his jacket while pulling on his own. “We should go find a motel.”   

Sam looks around at Bobby, who is leaning against the library door, watching them, then back at Dean. “We should at least make copies of the books we did see,” he says, his face set stubbornly. “If Bobby’s okay with it.”

“I’m sure Bobby can email us copies,” Dean tells him, keeping his eyes fixed on Bobby’s, and after a moment, Bobby gives a slight jerk of the head that he takes to mean consent.

“You boys go ahead and get going,” Bobby says, flapping a hand at them. “I’ll call if I hear about any demon activity.”

Sam looks as though he wants to protest, but with a hasty “Thanks, Bobby, see you around!” Dean manages to drag him back out to the Impala.

“Dude, what’s up with you?” Sam asks as Dean guns the engine and takes them roaring out of the salvage yard.

“Nothing,” he repeats. Then, before Sam can ask any more questions, he flicks the radio on.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sam is standing in the living room of a house. He doesn’t recognize the furniture, doesn’t know any of the people in the photographs, but something about the room is familiar. Didn’t their old house in Lawrence used to look something like this….?_

_Out of nowhere, the couch comes barrelling across the room, directly towards Sam. It knocks into him and pins him against the wall. A floor lamp standing in the corner topples over and shatters. Pictures rattle on the walls. Sam closes his eyes, unable to move, as a whirlwind whips up around him._

_Then, suddenly, the wind and noise stop. The resulting silence is broken by a soft, achingly familiar voice._

_“Sam.”_

_He opens his eyes cautiously, and there she is. Standing there in a simple black dress, her hair floating around her shoulders, smiling gently. Looking just as she did the last time Sam saw her._

_“I’m sorry,” his mother says, and dissolves into flame._

Sam wakes with a start at that point, just as he does every time he has this nightmare. For a moment he lies still on the motel bed, listening. All is quiet and dark; Dean’s breathing sounds slow and deep from the other bed, so he’s still asleep. Sam might not be so lucky next time, though; he’s been having this nightmare for weeks already, and Dean is bound to notice eventually. Better to just bring it up himself, on his own terms. But not before he’s done a little research.  

Sam gets quietly out of bed and feels his way over to his duffel. It takes him a minute to extract his laptop in the dark, but he gets ahold of it eventually, tiptoes into the bathroom, and closes the door before powering it on.

Then he pulls up his usual news sites and runs a search on Lawrence, Kansas.

*S*P*N*

Sam waits anxiously for Dean to get up that morning. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to his brother to convince him that they need to go back to their old house in Lawrence, but he’s sure Dean won’t like the idea. He’ll probably like the idea of Sam’s nightmares even less, but there’s no help for it. Sam’s only had this type of nightmare twice before, but ignoring them hadn’t turned out well either time. He’s not going to make the same mistake again.

Sam is sitting on his bed, ostensibly reading through John’s journal for anything about demons they might have overlooked, but really only turning the pages, all his attention taken up with listening for movement from the other side of the room. When Dean finally stirs, Sam looks up immediately, tossing the journal aside.

“Hey,” he says as Dean sits up.

Dean looks surprised at the greeting, but he croaks out a sleepy “Hey” in reply. “What’re you doing up so early?”

“Is it early?” Sam says vaguely, checking the time on his cell phone since the cheap motel they’re staying in didn’t provide a working alarm clock for their room. “I was doing some research.”

But Dean isn’t paying attention. He’s staring at the phone in Sam’s hand.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair a tad awkwardly. “Maybe you should stop talking to Jess so often.”

Sam gapes at him, completely forgetting about Lawrence for the moment. Is _this_ why Dean was acting so strange back at Bobby’s?

“Why?” Sam asks. “You jealous?”

“No,” Dean says, too quickly. Sam snickers, and Dean’s awkwardness vanishes, replaced by a glare.

“It’s just, you’re looking kinda whipped, there, little brother. Always come running every time she calls….”

“Excuse me?” says Sam, outraged, all laughter gone in an instant. “You think that just because I _talk_ to her, I’m whipped?”

“It would be better for both of you if you just broke it off with her, Sam,” Dean says, ignoring Sam’s angry tone.

“Oh, like it was better when you _‘broke it off’_ with me to hunt monsters?” The words are out of his mouth before Sam even knows what he’s going to say.

“Yes! Exactly!” Dean says, and Sam has to fight to keep his expression smooth. He didn’t think Dean regretted bringing him along quite that much.

“Well if it was so much _better_ , why did you come get me?” he snaps.

Dean’s eyes slide away from his, and he makes no reply as he pushes back his bedcovers, swings his feet onto the floor, and moves toward the bathroom.

“Hey! _What aren’t you telling me?_ ” Sam demands.

“Nothing!” Dean calls over his shoulder, before slamming the bathroom door.

Sam sighs. He’s quite certain it’s _not_ nothing, but he decides it would be prudent to let Dean keep his secret for now. After all, Sam’s got his own secret to divulge this morning—and if Dean’s already second-guessing his decision to recruit him, Sam doesn’t like to think how he’ll react to the nightmares. Starting an argument now definitely won’t help matters.

“Look,” he says as soon as Dean comes out of the bathroom, struggling to regain the flow of normal conversation. “I think we need to head back home.”

He watches Dean’s face carefully as he says this, but his expression remains completely nonplussed. “Home?” he asks, as though it’s a word in a foreign language.

“Lawrence,” Sam clarifies, his mouth dry.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Okay, random. Where’d that come from?”  

Sam takes a deep breath. “I have these nightmares.”

Dean just shrugs, and bends to rummage in his duffel bag for fresh clothes. “Yeah? Comes with the territory.” He sounds perfectly unconcerned, but his shoulders look tense.

“Not _these_ nightmares,” says Sam.

Dean straightens up, a bundle of clothes in his arms, and frowns at him. “What’s so special about _these_ nightmares?”

“These ones come true,” Sam says in a rush.

There’s a pause. Then Dean says, “Come again?” His frown, Sam notices, has deepened, but he can’t tell whether in anger or confusion.

“Look,” says Sam, doing his best to sound reasonable. “I dreamt about Cheryl and Tommy dying for weeks before it happened, okay? And—” He stops, swallowing hard. “And I dreamt about Mom, too.”

To Sam’s surprise, Dean’s expression suddenly clears. “Oh, now I get it,” he says.

It’s Sam’s turn to frown. “Get what?”

“This is why you said Mom’s death was your fault, isn’t it?” says Dean, staring at him. “It wasn’t cause you saw the monster, or the hellhound, or whatever. It was cause you knew it was going to happen.”

Sam spins his amulet on its cord, not looking at Dean. He’d been drunk when he told Dean about seeing the monster, and is now regretting his alcohol intake even more than he did when he woke up hungover the following morning. He also definitely knows now that he prefers not to discuss this topic sober.

“Wow,” says Dean, and now he’s smiling, but it looks stiff and forced and Sam doesn’t like it. “So turns out you’ve got the Shining, and you still accused me of being psycho enough to kill Dad, back in Palo Alto.”

“Okay, I’m _sorry,_ ” says Sam, not caring if he sounds desperate. “Like I said, I had reasons for not wanting to believe. But I’ve come around, haven’t I?”

“Have you?” says Dean, watching him.

 _“Yes,”_ says Sam, thumping the journal on his lap for emphasis. “That’s why I’m telling you this. I want to do something about the nightmares this time.”

Dean doesn’t immediately refuse, which Sam takes as a good sign. After a moment, he gives a sigh, sets his bundle of clothes on the bed, and sits down. “And to do that, we have to go to Lawrence?” he asks, rubbing a hand over his face.

Encouraged, Sam reaches over to his bedside table for his laptop, opens it, and flips it around so Dean can see the news articles he’s pulled up.

“I’ve been having dreams about Mom at our old house,” he explains. “I did some research, and it looks like there might be a case there.” He waits for Dean to make some comment, but Dean just squints at the news articles and says nothing, so he continues, “A woman bought it a couple of months ago, moved in with her kids. Then, earlier this week, they ended up leaving—first a plumber got his hand torn off in the garbage disposal, and then all kinds of other freaky stuff started happening.”  

Again, Sam pauses and waits for Dean to say something, though he isn’t entirely sure Dean heard his rundown; Dean’s eyes have slipped out of focus, and he’s staring at the laptop with an abstract, faraway look on his face.

“You saw Mom?” he asks finally, in a much softer voice than normal. “In your dreams?”

“Yeah,” says Sam, just as softly.

Dean’s eyes snap back onto him. “I don’t want to go back to Lawrence,” he replies forcefully.

All of Sam’s previous annoyance returns with a vengeance. “Well, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” he snaps, closing the laptop rather harder than he intends to. Perhaps it would have been better, he reflects furiously, to just slip off to Lawrence on his own. After all, _Dean_ goes wherever he wants without a thought to anyone else. Why shouldn’t _he?_

“I didn’t say I wasn’t coming,” Dean points out, rising from the bed and gathering up his clothes again. “If it could give us a clue about what happened to Mom...Dad would want us to check it out.”

“I thought the whole point of all this was that we were doing it for _Mom,_ ” says Sam.

“Yeah,” says Dean, though he doesn’t sound as if he’s really paying attention. “We are.”

“So we’re going, then?”

“We’re going.” 

*S*P*N* 

They don’t talk much during the drive to Lawrence. Dean suspects that Sam is itching to pester him about the secret he seems to have guessed he’s keeping, or worse, to start some kind of discussion about their parents, but Dean turns the radio on full volume as soon as they get in the car, and keeps it that way as they leave South Dakota behind, heading for Kansas. Nothing like ear-pounding classic rock to ensure silence.

Sam pounces as soon as they stop for gas and food, though.

“So, you gonna tell me whatever it is you’re not telling me?” he asks as Dean parks the Impala and they get out.

“Who says I’m not telling you something?” Dean counters. He tucks his keys into his jacket pocket, where they scratch against the torn-out page of John’s journal as the two of them walk into the gas station.

“ _I’m_ saying it,” says Sam.

“Yeah, well, innocent until proven guilty, lawyer boy.”

“In that case, I’m arresting you on suspicion of withholding evidence.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Lawyers can’t arrest people.”

Sam opens his mouth, probably to rattle off another clever reply, but is interrupted when the person behind the food counter asks for their order. Ten minutes later, they’re back out in the Impala with two greasy slices of pizza each, and, thankfully, Sam has moved on to other topics.

“So what’s our first stop when we get to Lawrence? Check out the house right away?” he asks around a mouthful of pizza.

Dean reaches into the backseat for John’s journal and tosses it at him. “First line. Wipe your fingers before you touch that!”

Sam rolls his eyes, but complies. _“‘I went to Missouri and I learned the truth,’”_ he reads once he has the journal open. “What, like the state?”

“No, dumbass, Missouri Moseley—don’t you remember her? Friend of Mom’s? She used to come around and babysit sometimes….”

“Oh yeah,” says Sam, somber now. “She was there when….”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence, and Dean is glad that he doesn’t. This trip is bringing back enough memories as it is.

“Hey,” Dean says, after several bites of pizza have disappeared in silence. “Remember how she used to always yell at me for putting my feet on the table?”

“Yeah,” says Sam, with a small chuckle. Dean can see his dimples showing faintly when he glances over at him. “Swearing, too.”

“Dude, I never even said anything!” Dean protests. “I was only _thinking_ it!”

Sam’s smile fades. “She’s psychic, isn’t she?”

“The real deal,” Dean confirms.

“How did you find out?”

“Dad told me.”

“Oh.” Sam chews thoughtfully for a moment, swallows, but doesn’t take another bite. “Do you think...do you think Dad knew about me?”

“I don’t know,” says Dean, busying himself with wiping his fingers on his napkin. “If he did, he never mentioned it to me.” Of course, John also hadn’t mentioned that there was a demon after Sam.

Sam doesn’t answer. Dean turns the radio on again, to fill the silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback chapter next week! Then Lawrence. :)


	5. Interlude

**April, 1993**

 “I don’t want you to go.”

Sam’s voice drifts into the living room from the open front door. Dean rolls his eyes, not pausing in his frantic tapping of the video game controls. Sam sounds upset, but then, he always gets clingy when their mother leaves. For his part, Dean doesn’t mind much, except that he’s the one who has to deal with a whiny and anxious Sam until she gets back.

Dean hears his father gruffly ordering Sam back inside, then the roar of the car engine and the crunch of its tires on the driveway, but there’s no slam of the front door. Sam is probably still standing on the front steps, watching their parents pull away with that sad puppy look he always gets. Dean rolls his eyes again, and pulverizes several monsters in his video game before he hears Missouri calling to Sam.

“Get yourself back in the house, boy. Ain’t no call to be standing outside on a night like this.”

A moment later, Sam joins Dean in the living room. Dean casually sticks his foot out to trip him as he walks past the couch. Normally Sam is pretty good at spotting this trick, but tonight he’s distracted; he trips and falls with a loud thud.

“Geez, Sammy. You’re such a klutz,” says Dean, grinning. He expects Sam to scowl back, to leap to his feet and go running to Missouri, but he just gets up slowly and wanders over to sit in the armchair, as if he barely noticed what had just happened.

Dean frowns. Usually Sam gets so edgy when their parents leave, Dean has to employ drastic measures to distract him; last time, he chained Sam to the table with a bike lock, to which Sam did not take very kindly, and which accounts for Missouri’s presence tonight. Now, though, he looks distant, lost in thought, hardly aware of his surroundings. Dean studies him for a moment, then, with a shrug, turns back to his game. It will certainly make things easier for him if Sam is going to be calm this time.

“What’s goin’ on in here?” asks Missouri, poking her head into the living room to investigate the source of the thud.

“Nothing,” says Dean innocently, not taking his eyes off the TV screen, where he’s locked in battle with a ghost.

“What in the devil are you playing, boy?” Missouri exclaims.

“Video game,” grunts Dean, defeating the ghost and moving on to a vampire.

“And your mama lets you play this?”

“Yep,” says Dean vaguely.

Missouri strides forward, seizes the TV remote, and turns off the screen. “Well, you ain’t playin’ it while I’m around,” she says over Dean’s protests. “And don’t you even _think_ any nasty words at me, boy,” she warns, as Dean glares. “Whyn’t you go find a book to read, or somethin’? Give that brain of yours some exercise.”

Dean would like nothing better than to stomp off and sulk in his room, but he’s too aware of Sam, still sitting in his armchair and not reacting at all to the argument. With a sigh, he grabs a comic book off the coffee table and settles back into the couch, pretending to read, but really keeping an eye on his brother.

Sam’s behavior gradually returns to its normal edginess as the evening wears on. In fact, he seems almost more anxious than usual. He fidgets, fiddling with the amulet around his neck, which Mary gave him a few days before. Then he gets up from his chair and begins pacing around the room, peering carefully out of every window as he passes it, clearly hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar car returning. Dean starts to plan the evening’s diversion tactics, hoping their parents will hurry up and get back already, so that Sam will relax and Missouri will leave. Missouri, sitting on the other side of the couch, casts him a disconcertingly sharp look, as though she’d heard that last thought.

The ring of the telephone makes all three of them jump. For a moment, they all stare, frozen, at the receiver, where it sits on a table next to the couch; then the phone rings a second time, and Missouri slowly reaches out a hand to answer.

“Hello?”

Dean hears a garbled voice talking into her ear, and then her dark face goes suddenly slack with shock. Sam, his eyes wide and frightened, the amulet clutched tightly in his hand, moves around the couch to sit beside Dean, pressing up against him and hiding his face in Dean’s shirt. For once, Dean doesn’t blame him for being afraid. The ringing of the telephone seems to have set a subtle chime of fear vibrating through the room, and Dean’s heart is pounding. He therefore doesn’t shove Sam away or poke him like he normally would; instead, Dean puts his arm around him and pulls him closer, feeling his brother’s heartbeat fluttering just as fast as his own.

“Are you sure?” says Missouri into the phone, her voice shaking. She puts a hand up to her mouth.

More talking from the other end of the line, and then Missouri is saying, “Yes, I understand.” She hangs up the phone and stares at it for a minute, not looking up at Sam and Dean.

“What is it?” asks Dean. His voice comes out thin and high-pitched.

“Your parents,” says Missouri, still not looking at them. “They’ve been in...an accident. Your mama….”

“What happened to our mom?” Sam whispers. He sounds as though he’s on the verge of tears, and Dean impulsively reaches for his free hand and gives it a squeeze.

“Oh, honey,” says Missouri. “I’m sorry.” 

*S*P*N*

The living room is crowded, claustrophobic, full of adults in black suits and dresses, talking and crying. Dean scans the room for his father, but doesn’t see him. He hasn’t seen much of him at all for the last few days; Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Tommy have been taking care of day-to-day business and the funeral arrangements. They’ve tried to take care of Dean and Sam too, but mostly it’s Dean making sure that Sam eats at least a little every day and gets to bed on time. He’s used to doing it; it’s not very different from babysitting when their parents are gone.

Except this time, their mother is gone for good.

Dean spots Aunt Cheryl through the kitchen door, which is ajar. Their father must be in there, too. Dean gropes the space next to him for Sam’s arm, finds it, and gives a gentle tug. Sam looks at him, his expression blank and distant. He’s been wearing that look a lot lately.

“Come on,” says Dean, jerking his head towards the kitchen. Mechanically, Sam follows him. They peer around the doorframe to where John is sitting with Cheryl at the kitchen table, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.

“I know what I saw,” John is insisting, pounding his fist on the table. Cheryl jumps, and Dean winces. Sam just stares, blank. “It had these...eyes,” John continues. “These black eyes. It was inside the car, Cheryl. It tore her to shreds, it—”

A shiver of fear starts at the base of Dean’s spine and crawls all the way up to the back of his neck like some sort of many-legged insect. Is John saying that some sort of monster killed Mary?

 _“Stop it,”_ says Cheryl in a furious whisper. “Just stop it. You have two boys, you can’t just go tearing off chasing some crazy fantasy. You need to pull yourself together, goddammit—”

Dean blinks hard against the tears threatening to spill over his cheeks. Thirteen is far too old to cry, he tells himself firmly. Besides, Sam is standing there perfectly dry-eyed, and he’s only nine.

John stands up abruptly, his chair scraping back, but Sam and Dean don’t stay to hear more. They scramble away from the door and slip across the foyer and up the stairs, their hands clutching at each other. Once upstairs, Dean opens the door of the large storage closet in the hallway, and Sam follows him inside without hesitation. Dean leaves the door cracked, and slides down among the boxes and bins to sit on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest. He can hear Sam rustling around on the other side of the closet, but can see only the barest outline of him in the dark.

“Dad’s crazy,” says Sam, in a harsh tone Dean has never heard him use before. “He thinks a monster did it.”

“Or he could be right,” says Dean, though he thinks this is unlikely. Monsters are only real in his video games, after all.

Of course, a few days ago, he also would have thought it unlikely that Mary could ever be separated her family. Now, who knows what might be possible?

Sam gives a snort. “Come on, Dean, even I know there’s no such thing as monsters,” he says, still in the same harsh tone. “But it doesn’t matter. Dad thinks there is, and he’s gonna ditch us.”

“Well, he’s gotta kill the monster, right?” Dean reasons. “I could maybe help with that, but you couldn’t. You’re too little.”

 _“There’s no monster, Dean!”_ says Sam, so loudly that Dean shushes him. “Stop being stupid.”

“I’m not stupid,” says Dean, stung.

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“What’s gonna happen to us when he leaves?” asks Sam. He’s fiddling with the amulet again as he says this, spinning it on its cord; Dean sees it gleam briefly in the narrow strip of light shining through the crack of the door. He wishes Sam would take it off; it only serves as a painful reminder of what they’ve just lost. He reaches out blindly to smack Sam’s hand away from it.

“We’d stay with Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Tommy, probably,” he says.

“We would?” says Sam, and even in the dark Dean can feel Sam watching him carefully. “You’d stay, too? You wouldn’t go with Dad?”

“Why?” asks Dean sullenly. “Don’t want to live with someone as stupid as me?”

But at that moment, Cheryl’s voice drifts up the stairs, calling them back down to the funeral party. Sam scrambles up and goes hurrying from the closet without a backward glance. Dean follows a moment later, dragging his feet.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Driving into Lawrence is far worse than walking into his old room at Cheryl and Tommy’s, Dean thinks. Cheryl and Tommy’s house had hardly changed at all since the last time he stepped foot there, aside from the rock salt and the hex bags; it was all instantly familiar again, the furniture all standing in exactly the same arrangements, the same pictures on the walls, the same books on the shelves. Lawrence, though, is disturbingly unfamiliar. Dean can’t tell if most of the storefronts are the same or different; he doesn’t know if the houses are different colors, or if trees have grown in or been cut down since they left. It isn’t like coming home. It’s like crossing over into the Twilight Zone. Dean feels more out of place here than in any unknown town he’s ever breezed through while on the job.     

Missouri’s house is set far back from the road, obscured by several large maple trees. Dean parks on the street, but makes no move to get out of the car.

“You okay?” Sam asks, watching him.

“Let’s just get this over with,” says Dean. The sooner they get out of Lawrence, the better. It feels dangerous, being here. Any demons looking for Sam would surely have his old hometown covered. Or the hellhound that came after Mary could still be lurking, waiting to pounce as soon as they return to the burrow. Given the fact that Sam’s been having nightmares about this place, Dean is certain it’s not so much a question of if danger is here as when they will meet it.

“Just control your language and everything will be fine,” says Sam.

Dean reaches over to smack him on the arm, and then gets out of the car and starts up the long gravel driveway. Sam follows, grinning. Dean clenches his jaw, feeling bad-tempered. He doesn’t get why the kid should be acting so cheerful, what with all the bad memories this place holds.

The front door of the house opens when Sam and Dean are still several yards away, and they pause to watch. A blonde woman steps out, carrying a small boy in her arms. An older girl follows close behind.

“Thank you,” says the woman, turning back to talk to someone inside the house. “Really, thanks for the offer. But I just—I’d rather just stay in a hotel. Let me know if you—if it—”

The woman breaks off, nods, and takes the little girl’s hand, making for a minivan parked at the side of the house. Sam steps forward before she reaches it, and she stops when she sees him.

“You must be Jenny,” he says in a friendly voice. She looks a little taken aback, but Sam smiles at her, showing his dimples, and she seems to relax slightly. “I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean. You recently bought our old house.”

“Oh,” says Jenny, shifting the child in her arms to shake Sam’s hand. “Yeah, we, uh, we just moved in two months ago.”

“But now you’re going to stay in a hotel?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” says Jenny uncomfortably. “All due respect to your childhood home—I’m sure you had lots of happy memories there.”

Dean looks away. Whatever happy memories he has of Lawrence probably do not number nearly as many as Jenny thinks.

“Something wrong with the house?” Sam asks.

“The place certainly has its issues,” says Jenny carefully.

“There’s a monster in my closet!” the little girl pipes up.

“Shh, Sari,” says Jenny. “Here. Take your brother to the van, will you?” She hands the little boy to her daughter, and waits until they’re out of earshot before turning back to Sam and Dean.

“There’s definitely _something_ in that house,” she says. “Missouri thinks it’s some kind of...poltergeist. Whatever it is, I’m not going back there until it’s gone.” With that, she follows her children over to the van.

“A poltergeist?” says Dean, frowning, as Jenny starts her van and pulls out past them. It’s almost a relief. If it’s not a demon, maybe Sam isn’t in any more danger than usual by being here.

“I thought Dad’s journal said poltergeists are attracted to places where some great evil occurred,” says Sam.

“Right. So why would one be haunting our old house?”

Before Sam can answer, a voice calls out to them from the house.

“Well? Sam and Dean, come on already, I ain’t got all day!”

The rest of Lawrence might have changed, but Missouri looks exactly as she did back then, Dean thinks as they obediently hurry up to her. She’s rather short and plump, but she manages to look commanding with her arms folded across her chest, staring at them with her dark, piercing eyes. Dean shivers as those eyes meet his own. He’s always found her gaze somewhat disconcerting.

She leads them inside to her living room, and then turns to face them. “Well, lemme look at ya,” she says, and laughs. “Oh, you boys grew up handsome. It’s been a long time.”

Dean thinks it feels like forever. Especially when he remembers that the last time they saw her, both of their parents were still alive.

Of course, that was the night Mary left them. And now John, too, is gone.

Suddenly, Missouri steps forward and takes Dean’s hand. “Oh honey,” she says sadly. “I’m sorry about your father.”

Dean knows he shouldn’t be surprised—she _is_ a psychic, after all—but he can’t help thinking the mind-reading thing is a little creepy. He’s abruptly grateful that Sam can’t do that. If he could, he’d have learned about the torn-out page of John’s journal long ago.  

Missouri raises an eyebrow, and Dean realizes with some chagrin that _that_ particular thought has not gone unnoticed.

“Sit, please,” Missouri says, and they sit side by side on the couch while she settles herself in an armchair facing them. Dean resists the urge to rest his feet on the coffee table.

“So, Missouri,” says Sam. “Do you have any idea what’s going on at our old house?”

“It’s a poltergeist,” says Missouri. “A nasty one.”

“But why at our old house?” Sam persists. “Could it have something to do with our mom?”

“I don’t know why the house is acting up now,” says Missouri. “Nothing’s ever happened there that would attract a spirit. And it ain’t just the poltergeist. When I went to get Jenny and her babies, I could sense another spirit—but I couldn’t quite make it out.”

“Is it our mom, maybe?” Sam asks eagerly.

Dean frowns. Mary is gone, and not coming back. Surely Sam’s vision of her in his dream is just that—a dream?

Missouri leans forward. “I’m glad you still wear her amulet, Sam,” she says, and Dean looks over in time to see Sam glancing down at it in surprise. It’s gleaming in plain sight over his t-shirt; he’d again refused Dean’s suggestion that he take it off or tuck it away while they’re on a hunt, when Dean mentioned it as they drove into Lawrence.

“How did you know she gave this to me?” Sam asks.

“Well, I’m the one who gave it to her,” says Missouri softly. “She wanted something that would give you protection.”

“Wait, are you talking magic, here?” Dean asks slowly. “Some kind of hoodoo? So she did know about that stuff?” If she did, could she have also known how to sell her soul in a demon deal, he wonders?

But Missouri gives neither confirmation nor denial of this. “It ain’t hoodoo,” she says instead. “It’s a holy relic. Very powerful.” She smiles at Sam. “Your mama wanted the best for you, honey.”

“But why?” Sam asks. “Protection from what?”

“You still haven’t said if you think this poltergeist has something to do with our mom,” Dean cuts in quickly. He does not think that now would be a very good time to find out how much of his earlier thoughts Missouri picked up. He also doesn’t really want to consider how Mary could have known that the demon who killed her would come after Sam next.

Missouri turns her sharp gaze on him. Dean can’t quite suppress another shiver. “I don’t know what its purpose here is,” she says calmly. “I am glad you boys are here though,” she continues, picking up a wicker basket from the floor beside her chair and setting it on the table. “I’ve been preparing a purification ritual to banish the spirits. It’d be nice to have your help.”

Inside the basket are dried roots, herbs, vials of dirt and oils, and a dozen burlap hex bags, presumably containing the ingredients for the ritual. Missouri explains that a bag must be placed inside the walls of the house on the north, south, east, and west corners of each floor. Dean doesn’t really like the idea—it’s bound to piss off the poltergeist.

He also doesn’t like the way Missouri avoided their questions about Mary.

*S*P*N*

To Sam’s relief, Dean keeps the radio off when they climb back into the Impala, waiting for Missouri to pull out of her driveway so they can follow her to their old house. Dean offered—rather halfheartedly, in Sam’s opinion—to take her along in the Impala, but she refused, and Dean didn’t insist. It seems the two of them aren’t getting along any better than they had when she used to babysit.  

Sam feels a leap of excitement when Missouri’s blue sedan finally appears, and they set off after it. Sam is certain that he knows from his nightmares who the second spirit is. He might get to see his mother again very, very soon.

The prospect does not seem to be very appealing to Dean, who is maintaining a stony silence as they drive along. He’s been curt and moody the whole trip, and Sam is rapidly getting sick of it. The whole mission is supposed to be about finding Mary’s killer, after all, and this must be one of the best leads he’s ever had. He could at least _pretend_ to be a little enthusiastic.

“You know,” Sam says to him, in a deliberately cheerful tone, “we _did_ have a lot of happy memories in that house.”

“Would’ve been a lot more if Mom hadn’t died,” Dean remarks.

“You say that like it was her fault,” says Sam quietly.

Dean stares out the windshield, and doesn’t answer.

“Is that it?” Sam demands, his voice rising. “You still think Mom made a deal, that she _chose_ to be ripped apart by some kind of—of—”

“She knew about the supernatural, Sam,” says Dean, talking over him. “Missouri as good as said so. She could have done it.”

“Yeah, but you still can’t come up with a reason why she would have, can you?” says Sam, even more loudly.

“She gave you that amulet for protection,” Dean insists. “Right before she died. Why did she do that, unless she knew she wasn’t going to be around?”

“If she knew something was after her, why didn’t she keep it for herself, then?”

Dean takes a breath as though preparing to answer, but then lets it out in a whoosh without saying anything. He continues to stare determinedly out the windshield, his lips pressed tightly together, as though preventing whatever reply he was going to make from escaping. His knuckles, Sam notices, are white on the steering wheel.

“You just want to blame her for what happened after she died,” Sam accuses, although he suspects there’s more to Dean’s silence than that. “You know whose fault it really was, though? Dad’s. _He_ was the one who left us.”

Dean finally looks away from the road to glare at him. “Everyone in this family has _left_ at one point or another,” he snaps.

Sam doesn’t really know what to make of that. Dean follows Missouri’s car around a corner, taking the turn a little too fast in his temper. After a moment, though, he sighs and speaks again, sounding as though he’s making an effort to be calm.

“Look. It’s just weird, you know? First it turns out that Cheryl and Tommy and Mom all knew about supernatural crap, and now you’re psychic, and having premonitions about Mom, and there’s something haunting our old house. I don’t know, it’s just, maybe this whole thing is bigger than we thought.”

Up ahead, Missouri’s blue sedan pulls onto a quiet suburban street Sam knows instantly, though he hasn’t been there since he was nine years old. Dean follows, looking tense.

Sam peers eagerly out the driver’s side window, craning around Dean for a glimpse of the house. Like most of the rest of Lawrence, it’s changed since they lived there; it’s been resided and the trim is a different color. But Sam can see the old house underneath the superficial changes, just as he could for the rest of the town. The same front steps, the same porch, the same decorative shutters on the windows. They’re like friendly little waves to him from the past.  

Sam is out of the car as soon as Dean parks. Missouri is waiting for them on the porch, holding her wicker basket full of the hex bags they’ll need for the purification ritual, as well as three small hammers.

“We’ll each take a floor,” she says as Dean comes up, and hands each of them four spell packets and a hammer. “We’ll have to work fast. Once the spirits realize what we’re up to, things are gonna get bad.”

Dean taps Sam’s arm as he’s tucking the hex bags carefully into his pockets, and wordlessly hands him a sawed-off rifle. Sam already has a weapon—he’s taken to keeping a silver handgun in his waistband, in imitation of Dean and his Colt—but he takes the rifle without comment, holding it in his left hand and the hammer in his right.

Missouri sets her empty basket down on the porch, nods to both of them, unlocks the front door, and leads the way inside.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sam’s feet instantly remember the path from the foyer into the living room. There are no lights on, and a couple of times he hears Dean stumble into a piece of furniture in an unexpected place, but Sam moves through the room easily. He’s already familiar with the layout from his nightmares; this is the room where Mary will appear. It’s also, he realizes abruptly, the room where the poltergeist will make its attack.

“I’ll take this floor,” he tells the other two.

He expects Dean to argue, but he just says, “I’ll be upstairs.” He claps Sam on the shoulder. “Yell if you get in trouble,” he adds as he moves away.

“I’ll take the basement, then,” says Missouri. “Good luck, Sam.”

Alone, Sam looks around, getting his bearings in the darkness. Muffled thuds sound from upstairs—Dean must be placing his first hex bag, which means the poltergeist could show itself at any moment. Sam hefts his hammer and goes back out through the foyer and into the kitchen. That will be the hardest room to find a spot to punch through the wall, he suspects.  

He’s right; the kitchen has been remodeled since he lived in this house, and the eastern wall is entirely taken up with cabinets and counterspace. He’ll have to break through the tile backsplash behind the sink.

Sam swings the spikes on the back of his hammer into the tiles, leaving a couple of deep gouges. On the next swing, cracks begin to appear around the point of impact. Another swing, and chips of porcelain go flying everywhere. He winces slightly. Jenny is not likely to be pleased at the mess she’ll be coming home to.

A noise from behind him makes Sam duck instinctively. Something whooshes over his head, and he looks up to see a kitchen knife quivering in the door of one of the cabinets. He stares at it uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then a loud crash from upstairs makes the whole house shake.

“Dean?” he calls, but the only response he gets is a faint scream from Missouri, echoing up from the basement.

Clearly the poltergeist has spotted them. And it’s pissed.

Jaw clenched, Sam flips the kitchen table over onto its side and hunkers behind it as he turns back to the broken tiles. The quicker he finishes his task here, the quicker he can go upstairs and check on Dean.

The table shudders under the assault of what sounds like every knife in the kitchen. Next second the whole thing is ripped away and flung across the room, but Sam has already forced a hex bag through the small hole he managed to make in the tile and is sprinting across the foyer to the dining room. He’s only in there long enough to punch his hammer through the drywall and shove a second hex bag inside, and then he’s scrambling back out to the foyer, where he crouches down to open a spot in the wall next to the front door.

A horrible, high-pitched screech rends at his eardrums, and he instinctively slaps his left hand over his ear, still hammering at the drywall with his right. The glass window in the front door shatters inward, and he feels several shards tear viciously at his skin. Ignoring the pain, Sam sticks the third hex bag into the wall. One bag left—the one that goes in the living room.

The living room is eerily still when Sam bursts in. The noise of wood scraping against wood filters in from other parts of the house, meaning the poltergeist is occupied elsewhere. One more hex bag to place, and then Sam can go help the others. But he hesitates, glancing around the room. He’s here; the poltergeist is here. Where is Mary?

A thud from upstairs stirs him into action. He dashes to the north wall, and within seconds has knocked a large hole in it. Before he can fumble the last hex bag out of his pocket, though, something long and thin squeezes tight around his neck, yanking him backwards onto the floor.

The hex bag falls from Sam’s hand as he reaches up, trying to free himself, but the cord around his neck just pulls tighter. He tries to shout, but the only sound he’s capable of making is a faint choking noise. He can’t draw breath. There’s a loud roaring in his ears. Darkness gathers in his peripheral vision.

Dimly, Sam becomes aware of the floor vibrating under his head. Someone is entering the room at full speed. A light draft of motion next to him, a dark shape near his feet. Then the cord around his neck loosens, and Sam sucks in a deep breath and coughs helplessly.

When Sam opens his eyes, it’s to see Dean kneeling by the hole in the wall, with the hex bag inside. The house is silent.

“Thanks,” Sam rasps.

Dean reaches out and pulls him up into a sitting position, his grip painfully tight. “I _told_ you you should take that amulet off during a hunt,” he says.

Sam’s hand flies to the little bronze charm, realizing abruptly that its cord was the one that just nearly strangled him. He lets the amulet fall back onto his chest a little despondently; touching it reminds him that he still hasn’t seen his mother, and now that the poltergeist is banished she is unlikely to appear at all. In his dream, she always appeared during the spirit’s attack.

Slow footsteps announce Missouri’s return from the basement. She looks a little bruised, but is remarkably unruffled for someone who just spent the last ten minutes being attacked by a violent poltergeist.

“Did it work?” Dean asks as soon as she enters the living room. “Is the house clean now?”

Missouri is frowning around the room. “I don’t know. I can still sense—”

But her words are cut off as the couch suddenly comes barrelling across the floor, directly towards Sam and Dean. There’s not time to do more than yell in surprise before they’re both pinned against the wall. Next second, an armchair hurtles towards Missouri, knocking her over and pinning her as well. A floor lamp standing in the corner topples over and shatters. Pictures rattle on the walls.

It’s as though a small tornado has formed inside the room; the couch is torn away, but Sam is still pressed tight against the wall, unable to move, his eyes tightly closed against the debris being kicked up in the whirlwind. The wind whips his hair into his face, plucks at his clothes, pulling and tearing at him like hundreds of ghostly fingers. He feels his shirt tear. Then the cord holding his amulet snaps.

Instantly, the whirlwind quiets. Sam cracks his eyes open as he slides down to the floor, suddenly free of the force that was holding him down. Dean and Missouri are both beside him, looking extremely windswept. Dean has a cut across one cheek, no doubt from a piece of flying debris. Missouri’s hand is at her throat, and she looks scared. Sam scrabbles at his own collar; the amulet is gone.

“What the hell was that?” says Dean. Then he gives a soft gasp. Sam, who is preoccupied with scanning the floor to see where the amulet might have fallen, looks up sharply at the sound.

She’s there. Standing there looking just as she did the last time Sam saw her. Her blond hair flowing over her shoulders, her face soft and smiling.

“Mom?” Dean breathes. His eyes are wide.

 _“She’s_ the second spirit,” Missouri murmurs on Dean’s other side, confirming Sam’s theory.

“Dean,” Mary says, smiling at him. Then she takes a step forward, passing him to stand directly in front of Sam. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam can see Dean watching her, eyes narrowed now, suspicious.    

“Sam,” Mary says, her smile widening, and it’s so good to hear her voice that Sam nearly sobs. He chokes slightly, trying to smile back at her, but her expression changes to one of sorrow as she looks at him.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

Sam swallows hard, his throat tight. “ _I’m_ the one who should be sorry,” he manages to force out.  

But Mary has already turned away from him, facing the empty room. The ghostly wind starts up again, rattling through the rubble strewn across the floor.

“I know why you’re here,” Mary says.

As if in response, the lightbulb in the overhead fixture explodes in a shower of sparks and broken glass.

 _“I know why you’re here,”_ Mary repeats, her voice harsher and angrier than Sam ever heard it in life. “And you can get out of my house. And get away from my son.”

She moves forward, further into the room.

“Mom—” Sam calls out desperately, but she doesn’t seem to hear him.

 _“Get. Out,”_ she says, and takes another step.

There’s a flash of fire so hot that Sam thinks it might be singeing his hair. He, Dean, and Missouri all throw their arms up over their faces and shrink back against the wall as Mary disappears in the inferno.

*S*P*N*

Dean lowers his arm cautiously as the heat and light fade away. The room is quite dark and still again; the only sign of the spirits’ passing is a few loose magazine pages fluttering to the floor, coming to rest atop the wreckage of the furniture. Dean glances over at Sam, who is slowly uncurling from where he was scrunched against the wall. Missouri is on Dean’s other side, kneeling a little away from the wall, her hand fluttering nervously at the collar of her shirt.  

Sam crawls forward towards the pile of debris, and reaches to pick something up from a bare spot on the floor. The yellow light of the streetlamp outside filters through the window and glints off it—it’s the amulet. He must have lost it at some point during the poltergeist’s attack.

Sam looks rather disturbed, Dean thinks, as he looks down at the amulet resting on his palm. He’s about to ask what’s wrong when Sam holds the amulet out to him.

Dean takes it, frowning, and examines the strange little horned face molded into the bronze. He holds it in the light from the streetlamp in order to see better, and when he does, he can’t help but shiver. There’s now a deep scratch running directly across the eyes of the little face.

“Let me see it,” says Missouri, holding out her hand, and Dean passes the amulet to her without a word. She peers at it closely for a moment, and then gives a deep sigh. “I’m sorry, Sam,” she says, passing it back to him. “Its power has been broken.”

Sam cradles the amulet in his palm, staring down at it for a long moment before he speaks. “What did she mean—she was _sorry?”_ he asks.

Personally, Dean took those words as more evidence that she did make a deal, but he doesn’t want to make Sam look any more like a kicked puppy than he already does, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“I don’t know,” says Missouri gently, but Dean notices that she doesn’t quite meet Sam’s eyes. “I do know one thing, though,” she continues. “This wasn’t just a random haunting. That poltergeist was here for a reason.”

“To destroy the amulet?” Dean asks, and Missouri nods.

“Whatever protection it gave is gone now,” she says, looking directly at him now, and Dean’s skin prickles in fear. Just how many monsters are out to get Sam?

And now he’s even more vulnerable.

“What happened to our mom?” Sam asks in a small voice, still staring down at the amulet. Dean is forcibly reminded of a terrible night twelve years ago, when Sam asked that same question in this same room, in that same tone of voice, and his heart constricts painfully.

“She destroyed herself to prevent the amulet from being taken from you,” says Missouri.

“But it _was_ taken from me,” Sam whispers sadly. “She destroyed herself for nothing. It doesn’t have any powers anymore.”

“I don’t know,” says Missouri, looking thoughtfully at the amulet. “I think it still has power. Not the original power, maybe...but you value it, and that can be a powerful thing.”

It sounds to Dean like she’s basically saying the amulet is worthless now, but Sam appears comforted. His hand closes around the amulet, and Dean sees him slip it into his pocket as he stands up.

 


	8. Interlude

**November, 1993**

Sam’s left eye is stinging viciously. So is his lower lip, which is split and swollen, and there’s a sore spot on the inside of his cheek where he’s bitten it. Still, he manages to shout after Dirk McGregor as the kid saunters away, looking pleased with his handiwork.

“Just you wait. My big brother’s gonna rip your lungs out!”

Dirk just gives him a sarcastic little wave and disappears from view.

Sam sighs, and picks himself up off the blacktop behind the school, brushing grit from his clothes. He probably shouldn’t have tried to take on Dirk McGregor; the kid is much bigger than him. Then again, nearly everyone is. Sam has endured Dirk calling him “midget” for weeks, but today, Dirk decided to speculate that Sam’s father left him because he was so puny. Sam flew at him before he knew what he was doing, and even now, he isn’t quite sure what prompted that reaction. It isn’t as if Dirk came anywhere close to the truth, after all; John left because he was crazy, and that’s the end of it. Sam is actually glad that he’s gone.

He just wishes Mary didn’t have to be gone, too.

Sam drags his feet the whole way home, knowing he won’t be able to hide the evidence of the fight from Cheryl and Tommy, and indeed, when he enters the house, they both exclaim over his injuries. They ask him all kinds of questions about what happened, but Sam just sits there in silence, trying not to cry when Cheryl cleans out his cuts with hydrogen peroxide. Before they moved to Utah, Dean told Sam to let him know if anyone gave him trouble at their new school, and that’s what he intends to do, as soon as Dean gets home. Dirk will get his comeuppance tomorrow.

Eventually, Cheryl and Tommy give up asking questions and he retreats to his room with an ice pack for his eye, which by now is swollen completely shut and turning purple. A short while later, the front door opens and closes, and voices float up to Sam’s bedroom from downstairs.

“Where’s Sam?” he hears Dean ask.

There’s the deep rumble of Tommy’s reply. Sam can’t make out the words, but he hopes Tommy is sending Dean up, because his eye and his lip really hurt and he wants nothing more than to tell Dean everything that happened. Then Dean will hug him—probably just as an excuse to start a tickle war—and Sam will scowl and shove him away, but he’ll feel better.  

Sure enough, the next thing Sam hears is a series of footsteps hurrying up the stairs, and Dean bursts into his room a second later.

“Sammy?” he says, striding over to the bed where Sam is sitting, and bending to examine his face. “You okay, little brother?”

In answer, Sam takes the ice pack away from his face, setting it in a bowl on his nightstand, and sits quietly while Dean perches on the edge of the bed and looks him over. For a few long moments, the only sound is the faint ringing of the phone downstairs.

“Jesus,” says Dean finally. “What the hell happened?”

“Lost a fight,” says Sam ruefully.

“I kinda got that,” says Dean, his eyes moving over Sam’s face again. “Who with?”  

Sam takes a deep breath, preparing to tell Dean everything—how Dirk was teasing him, what he said about John, and how Sam was finally provoked into attacking and promptly beaten—but before he can say a word, there’s a knock on the door, and Aunt Cheryl pokes her head in.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says. She looks rather upset, Sam notices, but he doesn’t care why; he wants her to get lost so he can talk to Dean. “There’s a phone call for you downstairs, Dean.”

“Tell them to call back,” says Dean, barely glancing at her.

“Dean, it’s...it’s your father.”

This gets Dean’s attention. “What?”

“He—he said he’s calling from a pay phone. Doesn’t have much time,” says Cheryl. “He asked to speak to you.”

“He asked for me?” Dean repeats, staring. He doesn’t seem to notice when Sam plucks at his sleeve.

“Dean,” says Sam in a low voice, but he gives no sign of having heard.

“Yes, he did,” Cheryl replies. “Are you coming, or—?”

“Yeah,” says Dean, leaping to his feet, tearing his arm out of Sam’s grasp. “Yeah, I’ll be right down.”

“Dean!” says Sam, more loudly this time. He knows his tone is verging on whiny, but he can’t seem to help it.

“Be right back, Sammy!” Dean calls over his shoulder, already halfway down the stairs. Cheryl gives Sam an apologetic look, and follows him out of the room.

Sam flops back onto his bed, feeling tears that have nothing to do with the pain of his injuries burning under his eyelids. He curls up, his back to the door, and presses his hands over his ears so he can’t hear Dean’s excited voice floating up from downstairs. As if it wasn’t enough for John to take Mary away; now he has to take Dean away, too. And of course, Dean has to go along with it without sparing a second thought for Sam. Despite himself, he wonders what John is saying to Dean, and why he didn’t ask for both of them. He probably thinks Sam is too _little_ to deal with whatever it is.

He doesn’t notice when Dean returns to his room a few minutes later, until a hand on his shoulder makes him start.

“Hey,” says Dean, sitting on the edge of the bed again. “Your turn. Dad wants to talk to you now.”

Sam makes no move to turn over, but after a moment he asks, “What does he want?”

“Just to check on us,” says Dean.

“Make sure no monsters got us, you mean?”  

“He just wants to talk, Sam.”

Well, Sam wanted to talk, too, but Dean didn’t seem to care about that. Sam draws his knees up closer to his chest, and says nothing. Eventually, Dean sighs.

“All right. Then you wanna tell me about this fight of yours?”

Still, Sam says nothing. What’s the point, when Dean would rather listen to John than to him?

“Come on, tell me,” Dean wheedles. “I gotta know whose lungs I’m ripping out tomorrow, right?”

“Never mind,” says Sam, in a flat, hollow voice. “I can handle it myself.”

“Sammy—”

“I don’t need your help, Dean!” Sam shouts. “Just go away!”

In the ringing silence that follows, Sam holds his breath, half-hoping that Dean will ignore his outburst, pull him around, and demand an explanation. But all that happens is Dean gets up from the bed and leaves the room, pulling the door closed behind him without another word.

The cut on Sam’s lip stings when a stray tear rolls over it.


	9. Chapter 9

“Dude, seriously. A scarecrow?” Sam asks incredulously.

“Well, technically it’s probably a fairy or a pagan god,” Dean replies, irritatingly cheerful.

“But it’s a scarecrow. And it comes alive and it kills people.”

“Yeah, Sammy. Not all scarecrows are as nice as the one in _Wizard of Oz._ ”

“It’s Sam,” Sam reminds him, but Dean just grins.

Sam sighs in frustration as he stuffs the last of his clothes back into his duffel. He thought, after Lawrence, that they might be able to find some leads on the demon that killed Mary, but Dean seems determined to steer clear anything even remotely demonic. Sam has tried to be understanding—he’s pretty freaked himself about what happened at their old house—but it’s been three weeks and twice that many dead-end cases, and he’s starting to lose patience. With back country roads, with off-the-map small towns, with crappier-than-usual motels, and especially with Dean.

“Wanna explain to me why we’re going to the middle of nowhere, Indiana to kill a character from a children’s book?” he asks.

“Book?” Dean chuckles. “You are such a nerd. I was thinking of the movie.”

“Dean.”

“What?”

“I’d really like to understand your reasoning, here.”

“Uh...cause people are getting hurt, and we can do something about it?” says Dean, who is re-packing his duffel with his back to Sam.

“Right, but, I thought the whole point of what we’re doing is to find the thing that killed Mom.”

Dean drops his duffel onto the bed and steps into the bathroom to grab his toothbrush, hardly sparing a glance in Sam’s direction. “That doesn’t mean we should ignore all the other freaks out there.”

 _“Right,”_ Sam persists, “but since we might actually stand a chance of picking up the thing’s trail now….” He trails off, waiting for Dean to make a response, but when none is forthcoming he continues, "Listen, I’ve been doing some research this week. I found a case that looks like it might—"

“We better hit the road,” Dean interrupts, checking his watch as he comes out of the bathroom. “We’re supposed to be meeting that newspaper chick in a few hours.”

Sam huffs in frustration. He’s growing more and more convinced that Dean’s avoidance of the topic of Lawrence and their mother is somehow connected to whatever it is Dean’s been hiding from him since Sioux Falls. He wonders what it could be, and, more importantly, why Dean won’t tell him. Maybe it’s something rookies aren’t allowed to know.

He zips up his duffel with unnecessary force, knowing and not caring that his face is set in the expression Dean calls “the bitchface.” With a rush of vindictive satisfaction, he sees Dean rolling his eyes as Sam stomps around the motel room for a last check before they leave.

His feeling of satisfaction vanishes instantly when Dean lets the motel door swing shut in his face on their way out.

In retaliation, Sam slams the trunk of the Impala closed after loading his bag.

Dean pays him back by singing along with the radio, very loud and so off key Sam knows he must be doing it on purpose.

Seething, Sam pulls out his cell phone and dials Jessica’s number. Not only will talking to her annoy Dean, he thinks, but it will be nice to have a conversation with someone who is not his brother.

The conversation, however, is fairly short and strained. Sam quickly realizes that he can’t tell her anything of what he’s been up to since he last talked to her, or, indeed, since he left Stanford. It doesn’t help that Dean shuts the radio off and quiets down to eavesdrop.

“Wow, you must really have it bad for that chick, huh?” Dean says as soon as Sam hangs up the phone. Sam bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from answering, not wanting Dean to know his attempts at provocation are working. Dean glances at him slyly, then continues, “Kudos to you, man. I could never stick out the long-distance thing. I mean, phone sex is great, but—”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam snaps, forgetting his determination not to respond.

“What?” says Dean, with an infuriating, falsely innocent expression on his face. “I just don’t get why you keep talking to her, is all.”

“I know _you_ don’t understand the concept, Dean,” says Sam loudly, “but some of us like to keep in touch with people, instead of just forgetting they exist the second we leave town.”

The words leave a bitter taste in Sam’s mouth, but at least they get rid of that stupid mocking grin of Dean’s. He now looks highly affronted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.

“I mean at least she won’t spend the next four years wondering where I am or what I’m doing—”

“Better she has a little lack of closure than ends up dead because some monster got to her.”

“No, you know what, Dean?” says Sam, not even caring that his voice is threatening to tremble and break. “It’s not _better._ I know from experience, and you should, too, that being left without an explanation isn’t _better._ ”

“Yeah?” says Dean, and he sounds angry now. “And what if the person doesn’t wanna hear your explanation? Cause you sure didn’t want to hear it when I decided to find Dad, you were too busy with your little girlfriend at Stanford.”

Sam gapes, at a momentary loss for words. “What are you talking about?” he asks finally. “You _never_ told me that you were going to find Dad!”

“Because you never gave me a chance to!” Dean retorts. “You shut me down every time I mentioned him, and then you left—”

“I didn’t _leave,_ I went to college,” says Sam. “You were the only one who apparently couldn’t handle the fact that I was moving on—”

“Yeah,” says Dean darkly. “You _moved on,_ all right. _”_

He reaches out to flick the radio back on, giving the volume wheel a vicious twist so that the music is deafening, making further speech impossible.

Sam settles moodily back into his seat, confused and angry. Dean, he thinks, has no right to blame him for going to Stanford, not when _he_ was the one who ran off without a word. Did Dean expect him not to go to college? Not to grow up and get on with his life? To stay a little kid forever, so Dean could always boss him around and bully him?

The sun is glaringly bright in a crystalline autumn sky, heating the inside of the Impala until it’s stifling. Sam shifts uncomfortably, itching to get out of the car and breathe the cool air, longing for their arrival in Indiana. He doesn’t want to be on this hunt, but he wants to be trapped in the car or in a motel room with Dean even less. Maybe, once they arrive, he can slip off on his own for a few minutes….

And that’s when the idea strikes him, the plan bursting fully formed into his mind.

*S*P*N*

Dean normally loves driving on bright, sunny days, loves the glare of the sun off the road and the wind whipping past the car. Now, though, with Sam sulking in the passenger seat, it’s impossible to relax.

Much as he hates to admit it, Sam is right about one thing—they really could pick up a good lead on Mary’s killer from Lawrence. But following the demon’s trail would be like a mouse following the smell of cheese into a mousetrap. Get too close, and the metal bar descends. And Dean is in no doubt that it would descend directly on Sam. Better to aim lower, and not risk the grand prize just yet.

Of course, it doesn’t help that Dean has been keeping all the evidence of this folded up in his jacket pocket.

If Sam doesn’t stop second-guessing him, though, Dean thinks he might just let the demon have him. Does he still not trust Dean, after five months on the road together? Does he think, because Dean doesn’t have a degree, that he doesn’t know what he’s doing?

They enter Burkitsville, Indiana with a little over an hour to spare before their meeting with the newspaper columnist. Dean stops in the parking lot of the town’s only inn, sighing when Sam immediately flings his door open, scrambles out, and slams the door behind him. He’s already got the keys to a room by the time Dean grabs their bags out of the trunk. Dean follows him into the room without comment. The tension between them is a little better now that they’re in a slightly less confined space, but judging by the way Sam pointedly ignores Dean salting the door and windows, placing their usual hex bags and protection sigils, and setting out clean suits for them to change into, he isn’t planning on relenting anytime soon.

Dean studies Sam’s stiff posture where he sits hunched over his laptop at the tiny breakfast table, fidgeting with the amulet hanging on a new cord around his neck. Dean hasn’t remarked on the fact that he still wears it, even though it’s worthless now. He also hasn’t mentioned, although he has certainly noticed, the fact that on every hunt since Lawrence, Sam has slipped it off and kept it tucked safely in his pocket. The thought makes Dean smile slightly. Maybe Sam trusts him after all.  

“We’ve still got some time before our meeting,” he says. “How about I grab us some takeout?”

“Go ahead,” Sam says, not looking up from the laptop.

“I saw a place up the road that looks like it has veggie wraps,” Dean tries. “Want me to get you one?”

“Whatever’s fine,” Sam says indifferently.

At least he’s deigning to answer, Dean thinks, shaking his head as he walks out the door. He spends some time at the veggie wrap place deliberating over the menu—will Sam like the Mediterranean or the Club wrap better?—before eventually settling on one, ordering a cheesesteak sub for himself, and making the trek back down the street to the inn.

He opens the door to their room with some difficulty, his hands full of takeout bags, and backs inside. “Sam?” he calls over his shoulder as he pulls the door closed behind him. “Got the food. Come and eat something.”

There’s no response. Dean turns around, expecting to see Sam still sulking at the computer, bitchface firmly in place. But the computer is dark and lonely on the little breakfast table. Dean sets the bundle of food down next to it and goes to knock on the bathroom door, which is closed.

“Sam?”

No response, no noise from within.

“Come on, stop being such a bitch,” says Dean exasperatedly, trying the door handle. To his surprise, it turns, and the door swings open, revealing the bathroom to be silent and empty.

“Sam?” Dean says again, knowing it’s pointless. Sam isn’t here.

Dean feels a small, anxious flutter in his gut, but he takes a few deep breaths and fumbles his cell phone out of his pocket. Maybe Sam just went to get a soda from the vending machine, or took a walk around the block to work off his bad mood.

He selects Sam’s name in his contacts and waits impatiently for the ring, then for Sam to pick up. But it just keeps ringing until it goes to voicemail.  

His heart pounding now, Dean hangs up and turns to scan the room, looking for any clue as to where Sam might have gone. His duffel is still sitting on the floor where Dean dropped it when he brought it in, so at least he hasn’t decided to take off back to California. There’s no sign of a struggle, and all of their warding and defenses are still in place, so no demon could have followed them here and kidnapped him. The room seems exactly as Dean left it, except that it’s devoid of Sam.

Then Dean realizes one other thing is missing—Sam’s suit is gone from the bed where Dean laid it out twenty minutes earlier.

Cursing, Dean races back out the door, leaving the food sitting on the table, and jumps into his car, pausing only to ensure the Colt is tucked into his waistband and to grab a few extra armaments out of the trunk. He jams the keys into the ignition, trying not to think too much about how many ways Sam could get into trouble, hunting on his own without even that stupid amulet protecting him. Sam can’t have gotten very far, and Dean will find him faster with the car. The tires squeal as he peels out of the parking lot.

*S*P*N*

Sam sets a brisk pace as he walks away from the inn, thankful that the town of Burkitsville is small enough he won’t need to take the Impala to get to the newspaper columnist’s house. As amusing as it is to imagine Dean’s reaction to finding his car gone, Sam figures his own disappearance from the inn will be quite enough to get his point across.

Burkitsville makes a very pretty autumn picture; the leaves are in full color and dazzling against the bright sky. Sam feels some of the tension of the last few hours draining away as he walks, enjoying the chance to get out and about on his own. He pulls a motel notepad out of his pocket, on which he has jotted down directions to the house, having looked them up on his laptop while Dean was warding their room. It’s only a ten minute walk from the inn, which is good, because Sam estimates that he has about fifteen minutes at the most before Dean gets back. He checks the time and walks a little faster.

Sam is sweating slightly in his suit by the time he turns up the driveway of the newspaper columnist’s house. He glances around as he rings the doorbell, half expecting to hear the Impala roaring up behind him at any second.

After a few moments, the door is opened by small young woman with a blonde pixie cut. Sam opens his mouth to introduce himself, but the words die in his throat as she looks up at him. For a second, her eyes look black—as black and empty as the hellhound eyes obsessively sketched on every page of John’s journal. But then she blinks, and the vision is gone.

“Can I help you?” she asks, looking politely confused.

“Uh,” Sam stutters. “Um, yeah. I’m Sam Winchester. My brother and I called yesterday, we had a meeting with—”

“Oh, of course,” says the young woman, smiling. Sam finds the expression rather unsettling. “Hi, Sam. I’m Meg Masters. Please, come in.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

Much as Dean would like to go roaring straight up to Meg Masters’s house, he decides it’s safer to park at the end of the street and walk the rest of the way. The entire street is quiet but for the rustling of dry leaves in the wind. The house, when he gets there, is similarly silent. Dean is far from reassured, however. Sam is probably inside with Meg, but that doesn’t mean he’s safe. Anything could be hiding out here, waiting for a chance to pounce.

Ducking quickly around the side of the house, Dean draws the Colt from his waistband and bypasses a small gate into the backyard. It’s all perfectly trimmed and neat. Satisfied that nothing is amiss, Dean turns his attention to the ground floor windows. He prowls slowly around the perimeter of the house, peering carefully into each window, trying to catch a glimpse of Sam. If he isn’t in there, if Dean was wrong about where he was headed or if he already missed him….

Thankfully, Dean never has to imagine what he would do in that scenario, since he hears muffled voices at the next window he passes, and when he peers in he can see Sam sitting in an armchair across from a blonde woman, who must be Meg Masters. They appear to be deep in conversation.

Dean frowns and raises himself slightly on his toes to get a better look. He can’t see Meg’s face, but he can see Sam’s. He looks tense, unsettled; his jaw is clenched and he’s fiddling nervously with the end of his tie. But he’s also staring at Meg with the sort of rapt fascination with which Dean has seen him read John’s journal, or a new book of lore. Normally Dean finds this look endearing, if a little exasperating, but not now. Now, Dean finds himself clenching both hands around the handle of the Colt in an effort to prevent himself from reaching out and tapping on the window in order to catch Sam’s attention, to make him look away from Meg.

Something about the scene in the window, though, tells Dean he should maintain his cover for as long as possible. He ducks quickly back out of sight and hurries back around to the front of the house, where he tries the door, not really surprised to find it locked. If his years in the hunting life have taught him anything, though, it’s to never be without a set of lockpicks. He has the door swinging silently open in a matter of minutes, and follows the sound of voices to the room where Sam and Meg are sitting, pausing just outside the door.

“So, what are you doing chasing ghost stories in a town like this, Sam?” Meg is saying. Dean can see her face now, and he doesn’t like the way her lips curl as she watches Sam.

“Oh, I’m on the road with my brother,” says Sam. “ _He’s_ the one who wanted to come here.”

“Well, maybe you should stay,” says Meg, leaning forward, staring at Sam with a look Dean can only describe as _hungry_. “You could probably get work through the community college.”

Sam heaves a sigh. “We’ll probably be leaving in a few days. Knowing my brother, headed to another backwater town.” He pauses, then gives an apologetic chuckle. “No offense.”

“None taken,” says Meg. “I’d love to get out of here, myself.” She raises her eyebrows, clearly inviting more questions. Dean could not be less interested, but Sam takes the bait, and he stays still to listen. There’s something off about this chick, and he wants to find out what.

“Oh yeah?” Sam is saying. “Where do you want to go?”

“Wyoming,” says Meg, her eyes never leaving Sam. She smiles, but her eyes remain hungry and watchful. “Hey, maybe you should come, too.”

“To Wyoming?” Sam laughs. “What’s in Wyoming?”

“Well,” says Meg, her smile widening. “ _I’ll_ be there.”

Dean can’t see Sam’s expression, but he can tell from his voice that he’s smiling his dimpled smile back at her.  

“Maybe my brother and I will swing by sometime,” he says. Dean suppresses a snort. That’s certainly not very likely. In fact, Dean thinks he will be quite happy if they never go to Wyoming.

Dean’s hands tighten again on the Colt’s handle as Meg stands up and walks over to perch on the arm of Sam’s chair.

“Who cares about your brother?” she asks softly. “Let him go his own way, and you go yours. Come with me.”

Sam draws in a breath to answer, but Dean has heard enough. There’s only one reason that Meg could be trying so hard to lure Sam away, and he doesn’t think it has to do with his dimples. He charges into the room, Colt at the ready. He wishes he had salt rounds for it; he has a full cylinder of bullets, and one of his knives is pure silver, but none of that will do much good against Meg if she is what he thinks she is. The only real weapon he has against her kind right now is the Latin exorcism Bobby showed him and Sam back in Sioux Falls, and even that won’t do much good unless he can keep her trapped while he recites it.

“Christo!” he shouts as she jumps to her feet to face him, and she falls back onto the couch with a cry.

Sam twists around in his chair to look at Dean, but before he can do more than give a startled “oh!” of recognition, Meg is back on her feet, her eyes suddenly gleaming solid black.

“Christo,” Dean says again, but she’s ready for it this time, and it doesn’t knock her backward. Sam stands up slowly, drawing his own gun. Dean keeps the Colt trained on her.

The demon laughs, her voice sounding much harsher than it did a moment before. “That gun’s just a collector’s piece without the bullets.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of bullets for you, sweetheart,” says Dean, giving her his most arrogant grin, though he’s horribly aware that she’s right—without salt rounds, the Colt is basically useless. It makes him feel better to have it in his hand, but firing it will hurt the human host more than the demon.

To his surprise, a disconcerted look flashes across Meg’s face before she smiles again. “No. You don’t have the bullets. We took them from your dear old Dad months ago.”

Dean takes an abrupt step forward so that he’s standing directly in front of Meg, and presses the barrel of the gun to her forehead.

“Did you kill our dad?” he growls. He has no idea what she means about the bullets, but he knows _exactly_ what she means about John. And suddenly, Dean doesn’t care about hurting the demon’s meat suit. He doesn’t even care about whether or not the gun can hurt Meg. He just wants to empty every last bullet into her brain, and then stick all his knives in too for good measure. He reaches back to cock the gun.

“Did you kill our mom, too, bitch?” he asks through clenched teeth.

Meg laughs again, though it’s a bit higher-pitched this time. “Well, not personally. Evisceration’s not really my style,” she says. Her features twist in a grin that makes Dean shiver despite the hot rage smoldering in his stomach. “Your aunt and uncle, though. Them I did myself.” Her gaze shifts to Sam where he’s standing behind Dean. “Saw some really cute pictures of you, Sam. I see you lost that amulet, though. Too bad. It looked good on you.”

“What the hell do you want?” comes Sam’s strangled voice.

“I want _you,_ ” says Meg, and a wave of fear smothers the rage in Dean’s stomach. He takes one of his hands off the Colt to wrap it around Meg’s throat, as if he can physically contain the secret she’s about to spill if he just squeezes hard enough.

“Shut up,” he hisses, pressing the barrel of the gun into her head so hard that it leaves a red indent on the skin. But she wheezes out the words despite his efforts.

“Big plans for you, Sammy-boy.” She bares her teeth, halfway between a snarl and a grin. “We’ve been looking for you a long time.” Dean digs his fingers mercilessly into her throat, but she keeps speaking in a horrible, gasping rasp. “I thought we’d have you as soon as my poltergeist destroyed the amulet for us, but that brother of yours kept you far off the radar, didn’t he?”

“What?” breathes Sam.

 _“Exorcizamus te!”_ Dean shouts, desperate. _“Omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas—”_

Before he can complete the exorcism, Meg shifts in his grasp. There’s a sharp trail of pain along his left side, and he lurches back instinctively. Then Meg throws back her head, and black smoke erupts from her mouth with a deafening, unearthly howl, rushing up to the ceiling and vanishing. Empty of the demon, the body of Meg Masters collapses to the floor and lies motionless.

A hand grasps Dean’s shoulder, pulling him around, and he yelps slightly as the pain in his side flares. Sam crouches down to examine the wound, gently drawing Dean’s t-shirt up and out of the way. “She had a knife in her sleeve,” he says, voice shaking. “It’s shallow, though. Just a scratch.” He lets out a breath and peers up at Dean. “You okay?”

Dean’s heart constricts painfully as he looks back down at Sam. He looks so young from this angle, gazing up at Dean, just the way he used to look before he grew so tall, when he was nine and Dean was thirteen, and their mother had just been killed. Killed by demons. Demons who had plans for Sam. Plans that Sam just found out about….

Rather than answer the inevitable question, Dean jerks away to check on Meg, disarming the Colt and tucking back into his waistband. “Woulda been a lot better if I didn’t have to come rescue your ass,” he snaps. “What the hell did you think you were doing, Sam?”

“I was working the case, Dean,” Sam says, straightening up slowly, as though bearing a great weight. “I thought I could—”

“Yeah, well, clearly you thought wrong,” says Dean irritably, kneeling down beside Meg’s limp form. He doesn’t really want to check her throat for a pulse—there are dark bruises already rising on her neck from where he strangled her—but he does it anyway, and is relieved to find one. She’ll probably live. “I mean,” Dean continues, “you didn’t even think to check whether she was human before you just walked into her house? When we already know there’s some sort of freak running around this town?”

Sam starts to retort, but Dean cuts him off by standing up and pulling out his phone to call an ambulance, glad for the excuse not to continue the conversation. There's brief respite while they lurk in the backyard, waiting for the EMTs to leave so they can go back inside and look through Meg's research, but judging by the look on Sam's face, Dean is certain it won't last. Sure enough, as soon as they reenter the living room, Sam resumes speaking as though there’s been no interruption.

“I didn’t have to check whether she was human,” he tells Dean quietly. “I knew she was a demon as soon as I saw her. I could see her eyes.”

At this, Dean, who’s been trying to busy himself with shuffling the papers Meg has spread out on the coffee table, whirls around to glare at Sam. He’s standing next to the armchair, his head lowered, staring at the floor.

 _“You knew she was a demon and you just walked into her house anyway?”_ Dean demands. He sees Sam wince a bit at the harshness of his tone, but he doesn’t care; he’s too preoccupied with horrified imaginings of what might have happened had he been a few minutes later getting to the house. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. I thought you had to be smart to get into Stanford.”

“Yeah,” says Sam coldly. “Smart enough to know that you’ve been hiding this from me since the start.” He raises his head abruptly, meeting Dean’s gaze with narrowed eyes. “Haven’t you?”

The question might be inevitable, but Dean intends to avoid the answer as long as possible. “But apparently _not_ smart enough to know that you can’t take on a demon with a law degree and some weird psychic powers,” he retorts instead.

“Don’t try to change the subject,” Sam snaps. “And stop treating me like an idiot. It was all right for you to come charging in here with even less than that.”

“That’s different,” mutters Dean, though he finds that it’s now his turn to stare at the floor.  

“Oh really? Why’s that?” asks Sam, folding his arms and raising his eyebrows. “Because the demons are after me, not you?”

“Sam….”

 _“Tell me!”_ Sam shouts.

Dean sinks down into the armchair, suddenly exhausted. “All right, _yes,”_ he sighs.

He doesn’t feel any better for having finally admitted to the secret. He doesn’t really feel worse, either. He just feels tired.  

Sam paces a few steps away, then turns back. “Why the _hell_ didn’t you say anything?”

It’s a question Dean has been asking himself for months, and the answer he’s been telling himself all that time spills immediately from his mouth. “I was trying to keep you safe.”

“Really?” says Sam incredulously. “That’s it? The same old excuse, just like Cheryl and Tommy and Dad?”

Dean rests his elbows on his knees, buries his face in his hands. Maybe Sam is right, and it is an excuse, but as far as Dean is concerned it’s a damn good one. Before he can even begin to articulate this, though, Sam speaks again.

“Come on. Let’s hear it,” he says. His tone is suddenly different; no longer angry, more resigned. “You didn’t trust me, or something? Didn’t think I could handle it?”

“Don’t be stup—” Dean breaks off, swallows, tries again. “That’s not it,” he says carefully.

“What, then?” Sam asks, and Dean doesn’t have to be looking at him to know that his eyes are wide now with that sad puppy look.

He licks his lips, hesitating. “I thought,” he whispers finally, “if you knew...you might freak out and leave.” He chances a look at Sam, sees that he had not been wrong about the puppy look, and rushes on, stumbling over his words in his haste to justify himself. “I couldn’t risk that, Dad told me to watch out for you, so I had to make sure you stayed.”

For a moment, there’s complete silence in the room. Then Dean hears Sam the faint rustle of Sam moving to settle slowly onto the other couch. After a few more moments of silence, Dean grits his teeth and raises his head to look at his brother.

“Dad told you?” he asks softly.

Dean feels his hand move as though a puppeteer is manipulating it with a string. He reaches into his jacket and withdraws the torn-out page from John’s journal, creased and frayed now from being folded in his pocket for so many months. He hands the paper to Sam, who takes it with a frown. Dean wants to hide his face in his hands again, but he forces himself to watch Sam read John’s last message. He can’t see the words on the page, but he knows them as well as if his father’s neat block capitals are inked directly on his brain.

DEAN,  
ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, FIND SAM.  
WATCH OUT FOR YOUR BROTHER.  
NOTHING’S MORE IMPORTANT.

IT’S COMING FOR HIM.

When Dean first decided to join his father in the hunting life, John made him undergo a military-style training regimen to prepare him for the physical demands of the job. Dean ran miles, did drills for hours, lifted weights until his muscles were limp and rubbery—but he thinks sitting here, keeping quiet while Sam stares expressionlessly down at that little piece of paper, is the hardest test of endurance he’s ever been subjected to.

After what seems like hours, Sam thrusts the paper back at Dean and stands up, his cell phone in his hand.

“Where are you going?” Dean asks, startled.

“I’m going to call Jess,” Sam says.

Dean closes his eyes.

Then Sam continues, “I’m going to tell her it’s over.”

Dean’s eyes fly open again, and he watches Sam stride out the door, kind of hating the feeling of relief flooding through him.

*S*P*N*

Sam looks pretty grim when he comes back into the living room. Dean isn’t surprised; he can’t imagine the conversation with Jessica could have been an easy one, for either person involved. He wants to say something, but he seems to have the equivalent of the Hoover Dam in his throat preventing him from speaking, so he just swallows and scoops up an armful of the papers from the coffee table. Then they sneak out of the house through the back, trying to look casual as they make their way down the street to the Impala for the short trip back to their room at the inn.

Dean flips the radio on during the car ride, but somehow the silence still hangs heavy between them. Dean longs to break it, but the blockage in his throat refuses to budge.

They don’t talk when they get to the room, either, but immediately immerse themselves in Meg’s papers, looking for some clue as to whatever has been killing people in Burkitsville. Or at least, Sam immerses himself. Dean has trouble concentrating; the cut in his side, though already closed, is aching dully. He keeps finding himself staring abstractedly at Sam, wondering what he’s thinking about—besides monsters, that is. The third time Dean catches himself doing this, he gives himself a mental shake and returns his eyes firmly to the page before him; but inevitably, a few minutes later, he’s back to watching Sam. He supposes it’s a good thing that Sam is so busy avoiding his gaze, he hasn’t noticed the staring.

It’s verging on evening by the time an article about how all of the disappearances have taken place in the orchard, combined with another article about the first tree planted in the orchard by Burkitsville’s first settlers, confirms Dean’s suspicion that they’re dealing with a pagan god. Then they don’t have time to talk, as they’re rushing to get to the orchard and burn the tree before sundown, when the god awakens.

To Dean’s relief, Sam is the one who finally breaks the silence, as they stand in the darkening orchard watching the first tree burn.

“I told her it was for her own good,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I said I was protecting her.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “It was,” he says firmly. “You are.”  

Sam shakes his head. “I’m not sure it was really for anyone’s good.”

“Sam, believe me, if the demons hadn’t been out to get you, I would have stayed far away from Palo Alto,” says Dean. “I’d have left you alone, I’d have let you become a yuppie lawyer with an SUV and a four bedroom house in the suburbs and no clue that monsters were real.”

Sam glances at him with an expression he can’t read, his eyes glistening in the firelight, as though with unshed tears. “But you’d have kept hunting,” he says, sounding almost angry again. “You’d have gone right on killing monsters with Dad, and not talking to me.”

“Damn straight,” growls Dean. “But I wouldn’t have dragged you into this life, no matter how much….” He trails off, not sure how to finish the sentence, and stares into the flames until the light starts to hurt his eyes. Then the clog in his throat finally seems to come loose, and the thing he’s been struggling to say all afternoon flows out. “But since you are here, though...I’m glad you stayed.”  

He can feel Sam shift beside him, turning to look at him, but he keeps his eyes on the fire, hoping its heat excuses the flush rising in his cheeks. Just as Sam takes a breath to speak, though, the shrill ring of a cell phone cuts the air—for once coming from Dean’s pocket, rather than Sam’s.

“Hey Bobby,” Dean answers it, after a quick glance at the caller ID.

His voice comes out gruffer than usual, and the first thing Bobby says is, “Not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, we’re fine,” Dean mutters, his face burning hotter than ever. He clears his throat. “What’s goin’ on?” he asks, fumbling to put the phone on speaker so that Sam can hear too.

“Just checkin’ to see if you boys had started on that case Sam found in Mississippi,” says Bobby.

Dean shoots Sam a questioning look. Sam fiddles with his amulet, which he’d just replaced around his neck, looking a little self-conscious.

“I tried to tell you about it, before we left for Burkitsville,” he says. “I think it’s a crossroads demon collecting on its deals.”

“What makes you so sure?” asks Dean.

“Well, the first two vics—a doctor and an architect—both made it big ten years ago, lived charmed lives ever since, and were found torn completely to shreds within two days of each other,” Sam explains. “And I checked with Bobby, and he agrees with me.”

“Going by the reports, it was definitely a hellhound that got ‘em,” Bobby confirms.

“And you put all this together yourself?” Dean asks, staring at Sam.

“Yeah,” says Sam, shrugging, but sounding a little defensive.

“Huh,” says Dean, impressed. Maybe he should stop teasing Sam so much about being a nerd.

“I think we should go and check it out,” says Sam, relaxing slightly. “Even if it’s not the demon who killed Mom, it could give us a lead.”

“You boys better get down there quick if you wanna catch this one,” says Bobby. “Once the thing’s done collecting it’ll be gone.”

Dean’s first impulse is to refuse, to hang up the phone, drag Sam back to the Impala, and drive as far away from Mississippi as possible. But hadn’t Meg found Sam anyway, as much as Dean tried to keep him away from her? This is what Sam stayed for. He gave up the good, normal life he had to help Dean avenge their mother’s death. Dean has known all along that it wasn’t fair to Sam to keep him away from the fight, and he suspects that Sam would find a way to get himself to Mississippi even if Dean decided to drive them straight from Burkitsville to Barrow, Alaska.

“So what are we supposed to do, then?” asks Dean, resigned. Sam grins at him, pleased, but he can’t manage more than a small smile in return. He might be persuaded to take the case, but not even Sam’s dimples can charm away his misgivings.

“Get down there and keep the hellhound away from the vics until you can trap the demon and force it to call it off,” says Bobby simply.

“Why should we even be trying to help people who sold their souls to demons?” grumbles Dean. “Kinda their own fault, isn’t it?”

“They made a mistake ten years ago, Dean,” says Sam, his eyes narrowing. “Are you gonna condemn them for that?”

“A mistake, really?” says Dean. “Seems like you’d have to have a pretty freakin’ good idea what you’re doing to summon a crossroads demon.”

“There was probably only one person who summoned the demon,” Bobby points out. “The rest of them likely didn’t know quite what they were getting into. Demons are tricky, but crossroads demons are the trickiest.”

“Oh, awesome,” says Dean sardonically. “Should be a piece of cake to trap one, then.”

“But if we can pull it off,” says Sam, sounding eager now, “while it’s trapped we can interrogate it, see if it knows anything about Mom.”

His tone makes Dean nervous, as does the thought of Sam in the same room as another demon, but all he says is, “Okay.”

And if the demon tries to touch Sam, he promises himself as he hangs up the phone, he’ll rip its lungs out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another flashback chapter next week. We're just about halfway through, people! Please let me know your thoughts so far.


	11. Interlude

**August, 2001**

The dinner table is laden with food—casserole, mashed potatoes, gravy, homemade cheddar biscuits—all of which Dean would normally be scarfing down as fast as possible, but he’s rarely had less of an appetite. Tomorrow, Sam will be going off to college at Stanford, and the thought makes Dean sick.

“Are you feeling okay, Dean?” asks Cheryl. “You’re not eating much.”

“Just not very hungry,” Dean mutters, staring down at his plate.

There’s a brief silence, which gives Dean time to feel guilty for ruining Sam’s farewell dinner with his bad temper, and then to decide that he doesn’t care.

“So what time you wanna leave tomorrow, Sam?” asks Tommy after a moment, in a determinedly cheerful voice.

“As early as possible,” is Sam’s reply. Dean thinks he can feel Sam’s eyes on him, but when he sneaks a glance up, Sam is busy scraping the last traces of casserole from his plate.  

“Well, then you better make sure you’re all packed tonight,” says Tommy, pushing his chair back and getting up from the table. “Dean, would you give me a hand with the dishes?” he adds, as Sam lets his fork fall to his plate with a clatter and bounds away upstairs.

Dean follows Tommy into the kitchen, containing a sigh. He’s certain he’s about to hear a lecture about his behavior at the dinner table, because of course, there's no way he can be allowed to say what he really thinks of Sam leaving. After all, what right does Dean have to an opinion on the subject? Sam is the perfect little golden child, with straight A’s and a full ride to Stanford, whereas Dean is just a disappointment with a GED. John is apparently the only one who doesn’t think so, and they call him crazy.

“Here,” says Tommy, handing Dean a towel with which to dry. “Now, I don't want to hear any arguments between you boys tonight, got it?”

“Who's arguing?” says Dean sullenly, seizing a bowl and wiping it dry with unnecessary vigor.

Tommy sighs and sets the pan he's washing back into the sink, turning to face Dean. "Look. I understand you're upset that Sam’s leaving. We're all going to miss him. But you can't blame him for moving on with his life.”

Dean clenches his jaw and turns back to the dishes. He remembers the  phrase "moving on" being used to describe what happened to Mary, and he hadn't liked it much then, either. He just wishes Sam wouldn’t make it so obvious that he’s glad to be moving on—moving _away_. Nine hundred and ninety-four miles away, to be exact. Almost exactly as far as Utah is from Lawrence, Kansas. Not that Dean is counting.

When Tommy finally releases him from the kitchen, Dean heads straight upstairs, intending to grab his jacket and keys from his room and go straight to the nearest bar. Maybe he can stay there all night, and not return until after Sam leaves in the morning. Or maybe he can just stay there forever, and just pretend that Sam will still be there when he gets back.

He finds himself pausing as he passes Sam’s room, though. “Hey Sammy,” he says, leaning in the doorway, doing his best to appear casual. “Wanna go out tonight? I'll sneak you into the bar, buy you a drink. You know, to celebrate.” His voice goes a little flat on the last word.

Sam is busy folding clothes into a duffel bag, and looks up with an expression that, in the last few years, Dean has begun to term “the bitchface.”

“I can't, Dean,” he snaps. “I have to pack.”

Dean is well aware of this, but he couldn’t help hoping that Sam would let him forget about it for a few hours. He supposes he should have known better.

“Oh, that’s right,” he says, making no effort to hide his bitterness. “I forgot. Clearly an Ivy Leaguer like you wouldn’t have time to hang around with a dropout like me.”

“Stanford isn’t an Ivy League school, and I definitely don’t have time if you’re going to be a jerk,” says Sam coolly, pulling a stack of t-shirts from his dresser drawer and beginning to transfer them to the duffel.  

Dean is tempted to show Sam just how much of a jerk he can be, but something stops him. After all, whether he likes it or not this is going to be the last chance he has to spend time with his brother for who knows how long, and he’s spent little enough time with him over the last few months. He figures he shouldn’t waste this opportunity.

“I won’t. Sorry,” he says, in a much softer tone. He clears his throat. “Need help packing?”

Sam’s expression smooths into something that’s almost a smile. “Yeah. Thanks,” he says, and his tone is softer, too.

They fold clothes in companionable silence for a while. Dean tries not to be obvious about inhaling the scent of every t-shirt he picks up, memorizing it.

Eventually, Sam breaks the silence. “So what’re you gonna do, now that you won’t be able to spend your time annoying me anymore?” he asks. His tone is playful, but his eyes flicker curiously up to Dean’s face.

Dean shrugs, not meeting his gaze. “Oh, I thought I might head out on the road for a while,” he says. “Like Dad.” He licks his lips, wondering whether to continue, and tell Sam that he’s planning to track their father down.

“Just as long as you don’t drive yourself crazy like Dad,” says Sam, with a short, sharp laugh.

Dean decides not to tell him. He stays silent, watching Sam’s little bronze amulet swing forward on its cord as Sam leans over to pick up another stack of t-shirts. Sure, he thinks bitterly, Sam will take this memory of Mary with him, but Dean—who is warm and alive and _here—Dean_ he’ll leave behind. And, moreover, he’ll judge him for going to look for the one parent they have left.

Dean stands up abruptly.

“Where are you going?” asks Sam. He sounds disappointed.

“Out,” says Dean shortly, and he strides from the room, leaving Sam sitting beside the half-filled duffel bag. Less than a minute later, he’s slamming through the front door, practically jogging towards the bar.

By the time he returns home the next morning, Sam is already gone.

 


	12. Chapter 12

It feels good to be on the trail of Mary’s killer again, Sam thinks, as Dean pulls the Impala up to a run-down old bar with a faded sign reading, “Lloyd’s.” It’s situated at the intersection of two dirt roads just outside of Rosedale, Mississippi, and seems like exactly the kind of place a crossroads demon would go prowling. Sam hopes so, anyway, and he hopes that he and Dean can find the next person on the collection list before the hellhounds do. He’d love to be able to cheat this demon out of a few souls, especially since a demon has just cheated _him_ out of a girlfriend. Not to mention a mother. And the rest of his family.

“You think this is where the first summoning went down?” Dean asks, looking back at the crossroads.

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” says Sam. “Look, aren’t those yarrow flowers growing at the side of the road? It’d be perfect for a summoning.”

Dean makes a small noise of agreement and gets out of the car, but instead of making for the bar he walks around the Impala to the trunk, from which he takes a small shovel. Then he paces out to the middle of the crossroads. Sam follows curiously.

“That seems about dead center,” says Dean, and plunges his shovel into the dirt.

“You think the spell box might still be there?” Sam asks.

“Maybe,” says Dean. “And if it is, we’ll find out who did the original summoning, cause you have to put your name and picture into those boxes.”

"Shouldn't that be one of the people who's already died?" asks Sam. "That architect, wasn't he the first one? So he should have made the first deal."

"Maybe," says Dean. "I just want to see."

Sam shrugs, watching Dean lift a few shovelfuls of dirt from the road. He doesn't see why it should matter who the original summoner was, but he's too glad to be on the case again to argue.

"Yahtzee," mutters Dean, as his shovel clunks against something hard.

Sam helps widen the hole so that they can retrieve the box. It’s metal, and the latch is rusted shut, so it takes a few minutes and a few whacks with the shovel to break it open. Finally, though, the contents lie strewn all over the ground. Sam scrabbles amongst the dried herbs and small animal bones until he finds a small photograph, curled and yellowed with age. On the back is written the name George Darrow.

"It's not the architect," he says in surprise, staring down at the young face in the picture for a moment before handing it to Dean. Dean examines it briefly, his expression inscrutable, and then tucks it into his pocket.

“Well,” he says, gesturing towards the bar, “let’s see if Mr. Darrow ever patronizes this fine establishment.”

They dump the spell box back into the hole, fill it in, and walk back over to Lloyd’s, brushing the dirt from their clothes as they go.

The bar is dark inside, and smells like stale beer, sweat, and vomit. At first Sam thinks the whole place is empty, but then his eyes adjust to the dimness, and he spots a man sitting hunched on a stool at the far end of the bar. He doesn’t appear to notice Sam and Dean as they approach, focused on pouring himself a shot of scotch from the bottle on the counter in front of him, but when they sit down on either side of him he growls, “Who the hell are you?”

In answer, Dean holds out the aged photograph from the spell box. “Look familiar?”

The man squints reluctantly at the photograph, then snorts. “Yeah. Me when I was too young and stupid to know how good I had it.”

“You’re George Darrow?” says Sam, unable to conceal his surprise. He can see now the resemblance between the tired, careworn old drunk sitting before them and the smooth-faced man in the picture, but he would never have guessed them to be the same person if he hadn’t been told otherwise.

“Yep,” the man says heavily, and knocks back his shot of scotch.

“Seen any hellhounds yet?” asks Dean.

Darrow glares at him with bloodshot eyes. “Of course. Why do you think I’m in here giving myself alcohol poisoning? Better way to go than ripped apart by one of those things.”

“You know how to keep them away?” Sam asks. It would certainly explain why Darrow wasn’t the first victim.

“You think anyone who knows how to summon a crossroads demon ain’t gonna know about goofer dust?” says Darrow irritably. With one hand, he reaches into a pocket, pulls out a small glass jar full of gray powder, and shakes it at them. With the other hand, he pours himself another shot.

“Well, we can help you get rid of the demon, not just the hounds,” says Sam. “Please,” he adds, because Darrow is shaking his head, “please let us help. Just hear us out.”

“No point,” grunts Darrow. “I’m damned either way for lettin’ that thing loose on this town. You go and find Evan Hudson—help _him._ _He_ don’t deserve what’s comin’ to him.”

“How do you figure that?” asks Dean. There’s a hard glint in his eyes that Sam doesn’t understand. This is someone they’re supposed to be saving; why does Dean have to be so antagonistic?

“Well,” says Darrow, after a sip of scotch, “there’s deals and there’s deals, right? I made my deal—well, it wasn’t for nobody’s good but my own. But Hudson—he made it for his wife. So you go find him and help him.”

Dean seems ready to take Darrow at his word; he gives a short nod and stands up. Sam, however, hesitates. Dean might be willing to leave the man to his fate, but Sam isn’t about to give up so easily.  

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he tells Darrow. “We can help you. We can save you.”

Darrow just shakes his head, and Dean says, “He doesn’t want saving, Sam. Come on.” And he drags Sam out of the bar.

“So we’re just going to leave him to die?” Sam demands as soon as they’re outside. The thought of letting the crossroads demon collect Darrow’s soul without a fight makes him clench his fists until his joints ache.

“It was his choice,” shrugs Dean. “Not much we were gonna do to change his mind.”

“That’s not the point,” Sam says between his teeth.

“No,” agrees Dean, unlocking the Impala and climbing in, “the point is finding the damn demon and seeing if it knows anything about Mom. I'm not gonna jeopardize that wasting time trying to sweet-talk some old geezer who doesn't even want our help.”

Sam shakes his head in disbelief. How long has Dean been avoiding anything to do with hunting Mom’s killer, and now he’s lecturing Sam about getting sidetracked? Still, he supposes Dean is right. They need to move quickly if they’re going to get to the last victim before the demon does.

“Let’s find Evan Hudson, then,” he says grudgingly, sliding into the passenger seat.

*S*P*N*

It turns out Evan Hudson is an antiques dealer who lives in a large, old-fashioned house in the town proper. At first, there’s no response to Dean’s knock, but then, just as Dean is preparing to pick the lock instead, the door opens to reveal a distracted-looking middle aged man.

“Yes?” he says, his eyes flickering between Sam and Dean, and then darting over their shoulders, as though checking for other visitors.

“Evan Hudson?” asks Sam. “We’re here to help you.”

The color drains from Hudson’s face as he stares at Sam.

“H—help?” he croaks. “What do you—”

“We know all about the genius deal you made,” says Dean, pushing past Hudson into the house.

“What? How?” asks Hudson, looking as though he would like to object to Dean’s rude entrance, but not quite daring. Sam doesn’t blame him; that hard glint is back in Dean’s eyes, and he makes no effort to conceal the sawed-off shotgun in his hand. Sam shuts the door behind them and drops a bag of supplies on the floor just inside.

“Where’s your wife?” Dean asks, ignoring Hudson’s question.

“I...I sent her and the kids out for a couple of days to visit her parents. I didn’t want them to be around when….” Hudson breaks off and swallows hard. “I did it to save her, you know,” he whispers. “She was dying. I made the deal for her.”

“You sure about that?” says Dean. Sam tries to shoot him a warning look, but he’s too focused on Hudson to notice.

A faint shade of anger seems to pierce through Hudson’s bewilderment; he frowns. “What do you mean by that?”

“See, I think you did it for you,” says Dean. His tone is harsh, angry. “I mean, did you ever think about how your family’s gonna feel, after you’re gone?”   

Hudson opens his mouth, but says nothing. Dean shakes his head contemptuously.

“Nope. You didn't think about it, cause you won't have to. But your family, _they'll_ have to think about it. And they'll have to deal with it for a lot longer than ten years.”

“I made the deal so that they’ll _have_ longer than ten years,” says Hudson.

Dean shakes his head again, but this time he looks more pained than angry. Sam bites his lip. How could he have forgotten that Dean thinks Mary made a deal, just like Hudson and the rest of the demon's victims? That must be what has him so on edge, his whole body rigid. Sam wants to reach out to where Dean is standing, place a hand on his shoulder and soothe away that tension, reassure him—because he’s certain that Dean’s suffering in that regard is needless.

“You think I wanna die? _”_ Hudson bursts out, before Sam can act on this impulse.  “I’m going to be dragged to _hell!”_

“Not if we can help it,” Sam cuts in before Dean can make the situation any worse. “Look, we can protect you from the hellhounds, and the demon, if you’ll let us.”

As he says it, he registers a flicker of movement outside one of the tall windows on either side of the front door.

“Hellhounds?” repeats Hudson, and his voice his suddenly high and terrified.

“We have some defenses we can use against them,” says Sam, but Hudson isn’t paying attention. He’s staring out of the window through which Sam noticed movement.

“Is _that_ a hellhound?” says Hudson, pointing with a shaking finger.

Sam whirls instinctively to look, but he only gets the briefest glimpse before Dean is yanking him back, pushing him farther into the house, covering the door with his salt-loaded sawed-off. That one glimpse is enough, however, for Sam to be certain he never wants to lay eyes on a hellhound again. It looks like a dog only in the very loosest sense of the word; most of it seems to be made up of heavy, slavering jaws, long, jagged teeth, and a huge, wet, quivering nose. The rest of it consists entirely of muscular legs and sharp claws.

Worst of all, though, is the jolt of recognition that hits Sam when he sees it.

“Go!” Dean yells at him, kicking their bag of supplies away from the door and across the floor to Sam.  

Sam grabs up the bag with one hand, and with the other hustles Hudson, who is staring, apparently frozen with horror, into the first open doorway he sees. From the entryway comes the crack of a gunshot and crash of glass shattering, and then Dean comes barrelling after them, slamming the door shut with a bang almost as loud as the gunshot.  

They’re in what appears to be a study; Hudson is crouched behind a large leather-top desk, rocking backward and forward. Sam seizes a jar of goofer dust out of their bag and begins shaking it out in a circle around him.

“Hurry up,” says Dean, taking a second jar of goofer dust from the bag and beginning to lay down a line at the door. “That hellhound’s probably still out there, I don’t know if I got a hit or not. We need this room secure.”   

Sam nods, closing the circle around Hudson, and moving on to the room’s large mullioned windows.

Hudson is peeking over the top of his desk, watching. “This is going to stop the hellhound?” he asks doubtfully.

“Oh, it’ll stop,” says Dean, smiling darkly.

*S*P*N*

Dean grins even wider at the terrified look Hudson gives him. He and Sam formed a plan to stop the hellhound on the way over to Hudson’s house, and though it doesn’t really involve goofer dust, Dean can’t wait to carry it out on this douche.

There’s a loud scraping from outside, which sounds horribly like claws against wood. Hudson lets out a little moan, his hands over his head. Dean glances around; before anything else, they need to secure the room. He closes the protection line over the door, and moves to help Sam with the windows. He can see Sam shooting furtive glances at him while they work, but doesn’t pay much attention until he speaks in a low voice.

“You still think Mom made one of these crossroads deals, huh?”

“Dude, do we really have to talk about this now?” says Dean, shaking his jar far too forcefully and dumping a small mound of goofer dust onto the windowsill.  

“It’s just, you know she couldn’t have, right?” Sam persists, pausing in his own shaking to look at Dean.

Dean’s eyes flick down to the spot where Mary’s little bronze amulet customarily rests on Sam’s chest. “We’ll see what the demon has to say about that,” he says, finishing off the protection line.

At that moment, a renewed flurry of scratching and thumping sounds from outside. Sam and Hudson’s eyes both track some movement Dean can’t see, flickering from window to window. Then, abruptly, the noise stops. Sam lets out a breath.

“I think it’s gone for now,” he says. “We’d better move, find a good spot.”

Dean walks over to the study’s second door, near where Hudson is still crouching in his circle of goofer dust behind the desk. He opens it, careful not to disturb the protection line across it, and peers out into the hallway. A few feet beyond the door, a second hallway transects the first.

“Here we go,” says Dean. “Works for me. It’s a crossroads.”

Sam looks doubtful, but he gets a piece of chalk from their bag and sets about drawing the pentagram and squiggly symbols of a devil’s trap on the hardwood floor at the junction of the two hallways. Dean stands guard with the sawed-off while he works, leaning in the doorway of the study so that he can keep an eye on Hudson as well, but there are no signs of the hellhound returning.

“What is he doing out there?” Hudson demands, craning his neck to see around Dean, who doesn’t bother to answer.

“Done,” Sam calls from the hallway, standing up and stepping away from the pentagram, which now sits inside a perfect circle of goofer dust.

“All right,” says Dean, stepping over to Hudson and pulling him out of his crouch, ignoring his terrified whimper. As far as Dean is concerned, a little primal fear is a fair price to pay for getting out of this alive. Plus, it leaves Hudson wide open for possession, which is essential to the plan. “Show time.”

“W-what’s happening?” Hudson asks nervously as Dean drags him out into the hallway. His mouth falls open when he sees the pentagram.

“In you get,” says Dean, steering him into the middle of the circle, making sure none of the lines are smeared. “Relax. This is all part of the plan.”

“Plan?” repeats Hudson in a near squeak.

“Yeah, the plan to make sure your sorry ass will still be here for your family to come home to tomorrow,” says Dean irritably. “Now shut up.”

Hudson falls silent, but speaks up again as Sam places a small box in the center of the circle at his feet. “Are you sure you guys know what you’re doing?” he asks.

“Well, I’ve never summoned a crossroads demon before,” Dean replies, relishing the way Hudson’s eyes widen in horror, “but I think we’ve got the general idea.”

A strong breeze suddenly runs through the hallway, bringing with it a flurry of loose papers from the study and a distinct whiff of sulphur. The circle of goofer dust thins considerably, but neither Sam nor Dean moves to refresh it. There’s no need at this point.

 _“‘The general idea?’”_ The voice that says this issues from Hudson’s mouth, but it’s not the shaky, nervous tone they’ve been hearing from him since they arrived at his door. He stands straight in the middle of the circle, no longer hunched and shivering, and his eyes gleam red as they take in the hallway and the box on the floor. “This is the worst summoning I’ve ever seen.” The demon shifts Hudson’s shoulders in a gesture of discomfort. “You could have at least provided a nicer meat suit. The ones I usually inhabit are much more...appealing.”

“Oh, I think this meat suit works just fine,” says Dean. “That hellhound of yours will certainly find it appealing.”

Right on cue, there’s a crash from inside the study. There’s nothing there that Dean can see, but Sam, staring with wide eyes, seizes his wrist and pulls him back against the wall, presumably out of the path of the hellhound. Dean imagines he can hear the creature’s panting breath as it advances into the hallway. If everything is going according to plan, it’s moving directly towards the demon wearing Hudson’s body.

The plan must be working, because the demon tries to back away, only to find itself locked in place inside the devil’s trap.

“What the—?” it mutters, and then it notices Sam’s handiwork with the chalk. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dean catches Sam’s eye and grins, punching his shoulder lightly. Sam smiles back, triumphant. Then he looks past Dean to where the demon is now cowering in the center of the devil’s trap.

“Looks to me like that body’s marked as puppy chow whether or not there’s a demon inside,” Sam says. “And the goofer dust is almost gone. One little draft and we won’t have to bother with an exorcism.”

“So you better call off your mutt, you son of a bitch,” Dean finishes succinctly.

The demon twists Hudson’s features into such a grotesque expression that it looks momentarily inhuman. But it seems to realize that it has no choice but to concede the point, because it turns toward where the hellhound must be waiting and gives a sharp whistle.

“Juliet!” it calls, in a voice that is clearly meant to be soothing, but is thick with anger and fear. “Stand down, girl.”

Dean swears he hears a faint whine and a scuffle of claws on the floor.   

“Juliet,” says the demon, now speaking in the sort of singsong tone one might use with a favorite pet. It makes Dean’s skin crawl. Sam is staring at the spot where the hellhound must be, looking rather repulsed. _“Down,”_ the demon commands, and there is another rush of wind, which rustles the papers scattered across the floor, and then silence.

“Well, boys,” says the demon, fixing them with its hungry red eyes. “You’ve got me here. Might as well cut the small talk and get down to business. What else can I do for you?”

“You can tell us what happened to our mom,” says Sam forcefully.

“I think you already know that,” says the demon, with a sly grin.

Dean sees Sam’s fists clench. “So she did make a deal?” he asks quickly. “What for?”

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I don’t do things for free, you know. I’ve gotta make my living just like everybody.”

“How’s this for a living?” says Dean, leveling his sawed-off at the demon’s head. “You tell us what we want to know and we _won’t_ fill you full of rock salt.”

“Please,” scoffs the demon. “Wouldn’t want to hurt this precious vessel of mine, now, would we? He’s got a family coming back to him, after all.”

“We’ve got holy water, too,” says Sam. There’s an ugly edge to his voice that Dean’s never heard before. He glances over at him, and his stomach jolts unpleasantly to see the look of hatred on Sam’s face—a look so intense it could almost match the demon’s.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” drawls the demon, leering. “Well, I can see why Azazel wanted you.”

“What?” snaps Sam.

The demon chuckles. “You wanted to know about your mom’s deal, right? Well, what do you think she had to trade? Besides her soul, that is.”

For a moment, there’s complete silence while the demon grins maliciously at the pair of them.

“Are you saying that our mom sold _Sam_ in a goddamn _demon deal?”_ Dean demands after a moment. The idea of her making a deal is bad enough, but this…this sends an icy, numbing chill through Dean’s blood.

“If it makes you feel better, he wasn’t actually born yet,” laughs the demon. Dean is sorely tempted to tighten his finger on the trigger of the sawed-off, which is still aimed at its face.

Sam is shaking his head. “You’re lying,” he says flatly.

“Am I?” says the demon. “You were about, oh, ten years old when she died, weren’t you?”

It’s true, Dean thinks, with a sick feeling in his stomach, Sam had been nearing his tenth birthday that terrible night. From the look on Sam’s face, Dean knows that he’s counting back too, remembering the birthday he never got to celebrate. He looks stricken.

Abruptly, the ice in Dean’s blood turns to fiery rage.

“But why?” Sam whispers. His voice is quiet, barely audible over the demon’s cackling, but to Dean the anguish in it is as loud as a siren. “Why would she do that?”

The demon shrugs. “No idea,” it says. “You’ll have to ask Missouri about that one. She was the one who arranged it, not me.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

Sam had been looking forward to exorcising the demon, but when the moment arrives it’s Dean who recites the Latin chant, while Sam slides down the wall to sit on the floor, hardly even glancing up when the cloud of black smoke rushes upward out of Hudson’s mouth and he falls inert to the floor. Dean steps forward and lays two fingers at the side of Hudson’s throat. His lips press together, his jaw clenching.

“He didn’t make it,” Sam says. His voice sounds distant, hollow, even to his own ears. They might have gotten Hudson released from his deal, but the demon won anyway. Hudson’s family is going to come home to an empty house after all.

“It was his own damn fault,” snaps Dean, but his voice breaks and his eyes are over-bright.

“Like it was Mom’s fault?” Sam whispers, and Dean turns away. If Sam were not so numb at the moment, he thinks he might resent Dean for being right all along.

Dean says nothing to that effect, however. He scrubs a hand through his hair, scuffs a foot through the scattering of papers on the floor. One of the pages apparently catches his attention; he bends down to pick it up and tucks it into his jacket pocket. The same pocket from which he pulled the last page of John’s journal, which bore the message that the demons were coming for Sam. And now they know why.

“Azazel,” Dean mutters, stepping past Sam into the study to retrieve their bag of supplies. “That must be its name. The one who made the deal.”

This is exactly the kind of information they’d hoped to glean from this case, but now, Sam can’t bring himself to care. It’s hard to believe he was so eager to for the hunt only a few hours ago. Now he wishes he’d let Dean keep chasing spirits and monsters, moving to a different small town every few days, keeping far away from their quest for vengeance. What did that quest matter now, anyway? Is it even possible to avenge a person who died by their own choice?

Before Sam can get too lost in his thoughts, Dean is there, tugging gently on his arm.

“Come on, Sammy,” he says, his voice softer than Sam has heard it since they arrived in Rosedale.

The nickname is what finally pierces through Sam’s numb paralysis. There’s a response he’s supposed to make, he’s certain, but he can’t think what it is at the moment.  He allows himself to be pulled to his feet, and stumbles unseeingly out of the house and into the Impala. It’s as if the revelation about Mary was too much to take in, and now all his senses are overloaded, and he can’t process anything that he sees or smells or hears. He can feel the warmth of Dean’s hand at his back, though, guiding him, and surprises himself by feeling grateful for it.

He doesn’t know how long they’re in the car, how far they are out of Rosedale, before he thinks to ask where they’re going.

“Back to Lawrence,” says Dean shortly. “I think we should pay Missouri a visit, don’t you?”

For once, Sam wholeheartedly agrees with him.

It’s a ten-hour drive from Mississippi to Kansas, and it’s already been dark for a few hours when they leave Hudson’s house, but neither of them suggests stopping to get some rest. Dean leaves the radio off; perhaps he’s hoping that the steady, monotonous hum of the Impala’s engine will lull his mind into blankness better than music. It’s not working for Sam, who would have actually appreciated some noise to distract him from his thoughts.

Dean drives the whole way with his hands clenched white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his shoulders tense, his eyes fixed on the road. They pause only to refuel. At one gas station, Dean buys a box of energy bars and shoves it into Sam’s lap with a significant look, but Sam doesn’t touch it, and neither does Dean.

It’s mid-morning when they pull up to Missouri’s house. It’s quiet, almost eerie; the only noise is that of the Impala’s tires crunching on the long gravel driveway. Otherwise, everything is still. No birds flitting about or singing. No wind rustling the maple leaves. No movement from inside the house when Sam rings the doorbell.

Sam glances at Dean, who shrugs, so he rings the doorbell again, insistently, and then raps his knuckles on the door. “Missouri!” he calls. His voice is hoarse and scratchy from the silence of the long drive from Rosedale. “It’s Sam and Dean. We’d like to talk to you!”

But as soon as he stops speaking, the eerie silence falls again.

“Right,” says Dean, after another minute of waiting brings no sound from within. He pulls his set of lockpicks from his pocket, crouches down, and has the door open in seconds.   

Inside the house it’s just as unnervingly silent as outside. Not even the hum of a fridge or a furnace working makes itself heard. Sam and Dean spread out, tiptoeing through the entire house, their footsteps sounding unusually loud in the silence. Dean has his Colt in his hand, and points it ahead of him into every room; Sam grips the handle of his own handgun in his waistband. Something doesn’t seem right about the emptiness of the house, and although there’s no sign of a struggle, Sam can’t help feeling that wherever Missouri is now, she did not leave this place willingly.

They search the entire house, and, finding nothing, return to the living room. That’s when Sam notices the folded piece of paper lying on the coffee table. He picks it up, and a small bronze object slides out of it and into his hand. He turns his attention first to the paper, holding it out so that Dean can read too. It’s a note written in curiously uneven, shaky letters, as though the writer’s hand was trembling.

_Sam and Dean,_

_If you’re reading this, I’m sure you’ve come here looking for an explanation. The only one I can give you is one you sure ain’t gonna like. That’s the trouble with being psychic, ain’t it?_

_Sam, your mama loved you. She loved her whole family. That's why she made the deal, when she thought she was gonna lose you before you was even born. She was driving home one night when her car got hit by a semi. She was okay, but you weren’t, and she just couldn't bear the thought of her family being torn apart._

_I was already the demon’s whore by then. He made sure I was there for the accident, so I could help her make the deal. But the demon didn’t just want her soul—he wanted you too, Sam._

_The demon who holds the contract—oh, he is evil. He's coming for me soon, and he's coming for Sam, too. I don’t know what his plans are, and I hope you never have to find out. Dean, it’s up to you to keep your brother safe now. You boys are on your own._

_I ain't asking for forgiveness. Where I'm going, forgiveness is pretty hard to come by. But I am sorry._

The last word trails off the page as though the writer was interrupted in the middle of forming it. Sam finishes reading, and opens his hand to look at the object that fell out of the note. It’s a bronze amulet just like Sam’s, molded into the same strange little horned face.

There’s a deep scratch across its eyes.

*S*P*N*

The sight of the destroyed amulet spurs Dean into action. They didn’t find any sulphur during their search of the house, but he feels certain that Missouri was taken by demons—possibly _the_ demon, Azazel. Whether or not that’s true, there’s an undeniably sinister feeling lingering about the area, and after reading Missouri’s note Dean is even more aware than usual of the danger Sam is in.

Sam doesn’t put up any of his usual protests as Dean hustles him back out to the Impala, still clutching the note and Missouri’s amulet. Soon, they’re tearing out of Lawrence, barrelling along some unmarked country lane. Dean doesn’t know where he’s going and doesn’t care, as long as it isn’t Lawrence. He never wants to set foot in that town again.

Eventually, as the morning wears on and the adrenaline wears off, Dean pulls the car into a secluded, shady spot at the side of the road, presumably so they can get some rest, though Dean suspects that it will be a long time before he sleeps again, despite the exhaustion pulling at his limbs.

This suspicion turns out to be correct; he’s still awake a long while later when Sam stirs in the backseat.

“Dean?” he whispers.

Dean considers pretending to be asleep, but he doesn’t have the energy even for that. “Yeah?”

“You were right. About Mom.”

For a moment, Dean is no more able to reply than he was the first time Sam said it, back at Evan Hudson’s house. Something about his tone, the way he sounds like a sad, lost little boy, seems to steal Dean’s voice away. Sam always loved and trusted Mary, even after she died, and he’s carried that trust with him all these years as surely as he carried the amulet she had given him; and now it too is broken.

“I didn’t want to be,” Dean finally manages to say.

“Do you wish….” Sam stops, and Dean hears him swallow uncomfortably. “Do you wish she hadn’t done it?”

“I wish she hadn’t sold her soul and left the rest of us to clean up the mess.” It was all right for _her,_ Dean thinks, chewing the inside of his lip angrily. She got ten years with her family intact, and when the time was up she just checked out. She never had to see her family separate, never had to watch John nose-diving into alcohol-fueled obsession, never had to struggle to keep Sam safe from all the evil freaks that are after him thanks to her.

“But do you wish….” Sam trails off again. Then he says in a rush, “I mean, if she hadn’t sold her soul I would never have been born.”

Dean sits up so fast he nearly cracks his head on the ceiling. He peers over the backrest to where Sam is lying on the seat, hugging his knees to his chest, his eyes squeezed shut, looking so small and vulnerable it’s hard to believe that if he were to stretch out there wouldn’t be room in the car to accommodate him.

 _“Sam!_ Of course I don’t wish you’d never been born,” Dean says sharply, his heart suddenly pounding with something close to fear. He’d thought the two of them were reaching some kind of understanding over the last few weeks—had he been wrong?

“She’d still be alive,” Sam whispers, his eyes still tightly shut.

“But you’d be dead,” Dean points out. He swallows, then plunges on, not caring if his voice goes rough. “I wouldn’t want that. No way.”

Sam opens his eyes and smiles shyly at him, and Dean experiences a feeling of relief so sudden and dizzying that he’s forced to sink back down across the front seat.

“Good. I’m glad,” comes Sam’s voice from the other side of the backrest. “Cause there’s not much we can do about it now, is there?”

Dean gives a weak chuckle, because he knows Sam wants to make him laugh, but he sobers again quickly.

“You know what I wish?” he asks.

“What?”

“I wish she never got hit by that semi in the first place.”

“Not much we can do about that now, is there?” Sam says again, but this time he sounds sad.

There’s a pause. To Dean, it seems that they’re observing a moment of silence for the life they could have had if the car crash had never happened, if no demon deal had been made, the years they could have had as a family, untroubled by the dark, evil things lurking in the shadows. Then he hears Sam stir again, this time sitting up and leaning over the backrest into Dean’s field of vision. Something dangles from his fingers directly above Dean’s face. He reaches up to swat the object away, and his hand connects with warm metal. It’s the amulet that usually hangs around Sam’s neck.

“I want you to have this,” says Sam.

“Mom gave it to you,” says Dean, staring at him.

“Mom sold me to a demon. I’m giving it to you.” Sam’s face is set in an unaccustomed hard expression. “Missouri said we’re on our own now. But we’ve always been on our own, haven’t we? You and me.”

It certainly seems like it, Dean thinks, looking up into Sam's face. Mary, John, Cheryl, Tommy—they’re all gone now, and their passing has only increased a distance that was there all along.

Dean looks at him a moment longer, then takes the amulet, its little face disfigured with the scratch across the eyes. He doesn’t know how he could ever have thought of it as worthless; now Dean thinks it’s the most precious gift he’s ever received. He wants to tell Sam how much it means to him, but he can’t find the words, so he just slips the cord over his head and lets it settle against his chest, right over his heart.

Sam nods in approval. “It suits you.” Then, as though attempting to lighten the gravity of the moment, he says, “Goes with that whole street punk look you’ve got going on.”

Dean punches his shoulder, trying to scowl, but he’s pretty sure it’s coming out more like a grin. “Thanks, Sammy.”  

Sam smiles back, and doesn’t bother to correct him about the name.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam is woken by the ringing of a cell phone. He flails a bit, disoriented, and then remembers he’s twisted and cramped in the backseat of the Impala, which has been stopped at the side of the road long enough for the sun to disappear again. From the front seat, he hears Dean answering the phone, his voice rough with sleep.

“Hey, Bobby.”

It’s quiet enough on this little country road that Sam can hear Bobby’s reply even without the phone on speaker.

“Just wanted to make sure you boys were doin’ okay with that crossroads demon.”

Dean gives a hollow laugh. “Oh yeah, yeah we’re doin’ fine. Took it out already, actually.”

“Didja get anything out of it?” asks Bobby, his curiosity evident even in the faint, tinny echo that Sam can hear from the back.

“Not much,” says Dean, his tone making it quite clear that further inquiries are not invited, for which Sam is grateful; he doesn’t think he could stand hearing the story of Mary’s deal narrated right now.

Bobby pauses, but takes the hint. “Well, if I hear of any more demon cases, I’ll let you know. You’re bound to uncover a lead eventually.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Bobby.”

Dean hangs up, and Sam pushes himself slowly upright. They did, of course, uncover a lead in Rosedale, but he could never have imagined feeling less inclined to follow it. He’s too tired, for one thing; even though he must have slept for several hours, he feels just as worn-out as he did when he first laid down in the backseat. For another thing, just thinking about the name “Azazel” sends goosebumps spreading up and down his arms. The idea of just staying parked on this little country lane forever, far from anything, is suddenly quite appealing.

He fully expects Dean to be thinking along similar lines, so he’s rendered momentarily speechless when he asks where they’re heading next and Dean replies, “Queens, New York.”

There’s a rustling sound, and then Dean is throwing a crumpled piece of paper over the seat into Sam’s lap. He smooths it out and uses the light on his cell phone to peer at it in the dark.

“Found it at Hudson’s,” says Dean.

It’s an advertisement torn neatly from a three-week-old issue of _The New York Times._  “ _For sale:_ _silver bullets numbered 10 to 13, engraved with occult runes. Handcrafted by Samuel Colt in 1835.”_

“So?” says Sam. “Hudson was an antiques dealer.”

“Shame he didn’t notice this baby, then, ain’t it?” says Dean, and Sam sees the outline of his Colt twirling in his hand. He can’t make out Dean’s expression in the darkness, but he knows Dean is watching him intently, waiting for him to put two and two together.

“I knew that gun was old,” Sam says finally, “but I did _not_ think it was _that_ old. Where the hell did you get it?”

“Dad gave it to me just before he died,” says Dean. “He said it could kill anything if it had the right ammo. And remember what Meg said about this gun being a collector’s piece without the bullets?”

“So you think these are the bullets.”

“Yep,” says Dean, smacking his lips on the _p._ “And if they are, we would have a solid weapon against this Azazel. We could actually kill the bastard, instead of just sending him back to hell for a while.”

“Are we still doing that?” Sam can’t help asking. “Going after Mom’s killer?”

“Course,” says Dean, without hesitation. “I mean, it ain’t just about revenge anymore, right? We gotta keep you safe, too.”

His hand reaches up to brush the amulet that now hangs around his neck, and Sam’s objections melt away despite himself. Besides, he knows Dean is right. He needs to hunt down Mary’s killer, for himself if not for her. He turns back to the advertisement.

 _“‘All inquiries to be made in person. Cash payment only. Ask for Bela Talbot,’”_ he reads aloud. “Doesn’t that sound a little shady?”

“Is there anything we do that isn’t shady?” counters Dean. “We’ll go in pretending to be buyers, and then we’ll steal the goods, easy. This chick won’t even know we’re playing her till it’s too late.”

Sam has a feeling that it won’t go quite that smoothly, but he’s too tired to argue.

*S*P*N*

The address given in the newspaper advertisement turns out to be exactly the kind of swanky urban apartment building Dean expected. He parks the Impala several blocks away—out of necessity rather than caution, because the Impala is a bitch to parallel park—and he and Sam set off to case the joint on foot.

It makes Dean somewhat nervous, being in the middle of New York City. He hates cities anyway, but it’s especially tense knowing that any of the hundreds of people passing them by on the sidewalks could be a demon closing in on Sam. Sam, too, seems wary; he’s walking with something less than his usual loose-jointed lope, his eyes flickering from side to side, and he keeps one hand firmly in his jacket pocket, where Dean knows he’s carrying a small pistol loaded with salt rounds, in addition to the silver handgun he keeps in his waistband. He looks powerful, dangerous, like someone who expects a fight and, furthermore, expects to win.

He looks like a hunter.

Sam, noticing Dean’s eyes on him, raises his eyebrows. Dean looks away hastily, his cheeks heating, but not before he sees Sam grin.

“Hey Dean,” says Sam. His tone is lighter than Dean has heard it in days. “Aren’t you gonna take that amulet off?”

Dean glances down to where the little bronze charm is shining proudly on his chest.

“We’re not on a hunt.”

“But we’re working. That counts. So are you gonna take it off?”

Dean brushes his hand over the warm metal. It’s astonishing how quickly he’s gotten used to having it hanging there. Taking it off seems as impossible to him as removing a hand or a foot. “Nope,” he says, “I don’t think I am, Sammy.”

“Hypocrite,” says Sam, but he’s still smiling.

Their next few steps take them to the front of Bela Talbot’s building, which is modern-looking and fairly small. Bela’s apartment is likely to be at the top, on the fourth floor. Sam and Dean walk the entire perimeter of the building, hiding in the shadows of the large trees that surround it.

“Well, getting in shouldn’t be a problem,” says Sam. “She buzzes you in, the doorman doesn’t look at you twice. But getting out—”

“Good thing I’m not afraid of heights,” says Dean, looking up into the branches of the trees rising above them.

*S*P*N*

A suit isn’t the first clothing choice Dean would pick for a stealthy escape out of a fourth-floor window, but he supposes he could hardly wear anything else if he’s going to pose as a wealthy collector interested in Bela’s antique bullets. As it is, he immediately becomes conscious of the ill-fitting, department-store quality of his blazer when Bela buzzes him into the building and appears at her door wearing a designer dress, diamond jewelry, and expensive perfume. At least the blazer conceals his Colt, which is tucked as usual into his waistband.

“You’re the buyer, yeah?” she asks him in a clipped English accent.

“Uh, yeah,” says Dean, uncomfortable under her piercing gaze. She seems a lot more savvy than he was expecting—not to mention more attractive. “John Christo.”

Bela raises her eyebrows slightly, but is otherwise unaffected by the name. Not a demon, then—at least Dean was right in _that_ assumption.

“After you, Mr. Christo,” she says. “The items are in the sitting room.”

Dean steps forward, glancing around the apartment. It’s modern and luxurious, but curiously stark and devoid of personal items, as though it’s a model for show and not actually someone’s home. Bela walks behind Dean as they pass through the kitchen and into the sitting room. She bumps into him slightly as he slows to take stock of the room. Its large windows will be fairly easy to climb out of, he thinks, and they’re luckily situated only a few feet away from the nearest tree branch, which means he should be able to make it to the ground without too much trouble. But most of his attention is taken up by the coffee table in the middle of the room, upon which is a wooden tray containing four gleaming silver bullets.

“Feel free to examine them,” says Bela, sitting down on a couch on one side of the table and indicating a seat on the opposite side to Dean. “I can assure you they’re quite authentic.”

Dean is inclined to agree; he can see the runes carved into them from where he’s sitting, and the numerals ten to thirteen are etched in the same old-fashioned, curly script that adorns the handle of his Colt. He longs to load them into the gun’s cylinder, just to see how they fit, but he has a feeling it would be unwise to reveal the gun to Bela. He can try them out when he has them safely out of this apartment; for now, he must keep up appearances until Sam can create a diversion that will allow him to escape.

Dean clears his throat. “Why are there only four bullets here?” he asks, trying to imitate Bela’s haughty, dispassionate demeanor. “They’re numbered up to thirteen. Where are the rest?”

“Gone, probably,” says Bela, shrugging. “Already used. You of course know the legend associated with these bullets.”

Dean lowers his eyes, trying not to give away his surprise. John told him that the gun had special properties, but he never mentioned that it was legendary. He considers asking Bela to explain further, but something about her cold, piercing gaze stops him.  Besides, it might look suspicious.

Realizing he's been quiet too long, Dean immediately opens his mouth to speak, though he has no idea what to say. Thankfully, at that moment there’s a loud knock on the door. Bela looks up sharply, frowning. There’s another knock, more insistent this time.

“Excuse me for a moment,” says Bela, with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She gathers up the wooden tray and gets to her feet. Noting Dean’s confused look, she says, “Surely you won’t mind if I take some simple security precautions, Mr. Christo.”

“Oh—um—not at all,” says Dean, silently cursing. He didn’t consider the possibility that Bela might lock up the goods while she went to deal with the diversion, but now it seems like a stupid oversight.

Bela gives him another cold smile, then turns and carries the wooden tray out of the room. Dean can’t see where she goes, but he hears the distinct sound of a wall safe opening and closing, and then Bela’s high-heeled footsteps ring out across the kitchen floor and she opens the front door in the middle of another flurry of frenzied knocking.

“What?” she snaps at the person on the other side.

From the sound of it, it’s one of the building’s maintenance workers. Dean carefully rises from his seat and walks quietly to the sitting room door, listening intently to the man’s demands to be let in to examine the plumbing.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my plumbing!” snarls Bela.

“Well, I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’ve had a report that the toilet in this unit is overflowing and flooding the bathroom. Are you the one who tried to flush the dead gerbil?”

From his spot at the door of the sitting room, Dean can see Bela standing at the front door, rigid with shock and fury, and has to press a hand over his mouth to keep from snickering aloud. He’ll have to congratulate Sam on a spectacular diversion once he gets out of here—which he can’t do until he retrieves the bullets. That particular task is not, at the moment, going entirely to plan. At least, Dean thinks, this turn of events means he might not have to escape out the window after all. He might be able to bluff his way past Bela instead.

There’s a door to the left of the sitting room, which Dean supposes leads into the bedroom. He slips inside and closes the door behind him just as Bela starts berating the maintenance man.

It is a bedroom, just as devoid of personal effects as the rest of the apartment, though there are a few expensive-looking decorative artifacts displayed around the room. Dean finds the wall safe behind the third picture he moves aside, and immediately sets to spinning the combination lock, listening intently over the continued sounds of Bela’s argument with the maintenance man for the telltale clicks of the tumblers falling into place.  

The door of the safe pops open. It’s crammed full of boxes and trays, no doubt all containing some sort of valuable antique. Dean yanks boxes out at random, searching frantically for the bullets, hears them rattling and clinking inside one, and has them out of the box and in his pocket in seconds.

“...and I’ll thank you not to bother me about pranks like this again,” says Bela from the front door, and Dean knows his time is up. He hastily shuts the door of the safe and replaces the picture over it, and slips out of the bedroom and back into the sitting room just as the front door slams. He resumes his seat, trying to slow his breathing, listening to Bela’s heels clacking back across the kitchen floor.

“Mr. Christo?” says Bela as she reenters the sitting room. “I do apologize for that interruption. Let me just fetch the items for you—”

“No need,” says Dean hastily, standing. “I’ve seen enough.”

“Then shall we discuss the matter of payment?” asks Bela, her cold eyes sparkling for the first time that Dean has seen.

“Ah,” says Dean, suddenly wishing he were negotiating his way down a tree rather than negotiating this conversation. “I actually think I’d better be going.”

To his surprise, Bela doesn’t press him. Perhaps she can tell that even if he hustled pool at every bar in New York City he could never come up with enough money to make a decent offer for the bullets.

Good thing he doesn’t have to pay for them, then, he thinks, unable to suppress a satisfied smile as she shows him out of her apartment, the bullets heavy in his pocket.

He takes care to stroll away from the building with every appearance of nonchalance, but he quickens his pace as soon as he’s out of sight of it, almost running down the sidewalk towards the Impala. Sam is waiting in the passenger seat, and Dean punches the air triumphantly as he pulls open the driver’s side door and slides in.

“Dude,” he gasps, grinning wider than he has in what feels like months, “that was an _awesome_ diversion.”

“You got the bullets, then?” says Sam.

Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls them out. “Told you, it was easy,” he says smugly. “Didn’t even have to climb out the window.”

Sam picks up one of the bullets, holding it close to his eyes to examine the runes etched upon it. “They definitely look like the real thing,” he says. “But I guess the real test is whether they work in the Colt.”

“Let’s load ‘em up,” says Dean, groping for the gun’s familiar handle sticking out of his waistband.

It doesn’t meet his fingers.

Dean frowns, twisting, trying to see where the gun could have got to.

He already knows it’s useless, though. The Colt is gone.


	15. Chapter 15

“That bitch!” Dean exclaims. Sam would find his affronted expression amusing if this weren’t such a serious matter. “She must have lifted it when we were walking into the living room!”

“And you didn’t notice it was gone until now?” asks Sam incredulously. “Wow. So how hot was this chick? Must have been something to distract you from _that._ ”  

“I was a little busy trying to figure out how to steal the damn bullets,” snaps Dean. Then he looks thoughtful. “She _was_ pretty hot, though.” Sam rolls his eyes. Dean rattles the bullets around on his palm, suddenly smug again. “Bet she thought she was gonna retire after this, selling the Colt _and_ the bullets.”

Sam sits up a little straighter at these words. “You think she knows the bullets were made for a specific gun?”

“She thinks it’s just a legend, but yeah, seemed like she knew.”

“But how did she know _your_ gun was the one? And how did she even know you had it on you?”

Dean pauses to think this over. “Well, I don’t think she’s a demon,” he says slowly. “I used Christo as my alias.”

“You think she might be working for them, then?” asks Sam. “For—for Azazel?” A slight shiver runs through him at the thought. Is there anywhere he can go where the demons won’t find him? Will Azazel always be there, waiting?

“Let’s go ask,” says Dean, his voice taking on a low, dangerous note as he shoves the bullets back into his pocket and steps back out of the car. Sam follows in time to see him walk around to open the trunk of the Impala and grudgingly select a spare revolver, which he straps to his side in a shoulder holster.

“I miss the Colt,” he complains, wriggling uncomfortably as they set off on foot once again. “I feel so naked.”

This time, Sam doesn’t entirely manage to stifle his laughter.

*S*P*N*

They find Bela waiting in her apartment, twirling the Colt in her hand. Sam thinks her expression of smugness might actually surpass Dean’s.

“Thanks for coming back, lads. You forgot to pay for those bullets.”

Dean flashes her a falsely bright smile. From his position just behind Dean, Sam can see his hand drifting towards the handle of the spare revolver at his side, and he tightens his grip on his own gun in his pocket. It’s loaded with salt rounds, although he can see immediately that Dean was right—she’s definitely human. Still, the salt rounds will do plenty of damage even if she isn’t a demon.

“Oh, that Colt you took from me should more than cover it,” says Dean.  

Bela’s expression suddenly shifts to deadly seriousness. She stops twirling the Colt, and points it directly at Dean. Instantly, and in perfect unison, both Sam and Dean bring their own guns up to point at her.

“Unfortunately,” says Bela, “the bullets weren’t for sale.”

“Really?” says Dean, with a look of exaggerated surprise. “Then you shouldn’t have put an ad in the newspaper saying that they were. That’s just confusing.”

“Look,” says Bela, in the placating tone one might use to reason with an upset toddler. “Clearly we both know one is useless without the other. How about you hand over those bullets, and I’ll split the profits with you? Shall we say...80-20?”

“So you know about the gun, what it can do?” asks Sam, his earlier suspicions confirmed.

Bela smiles at him, her eyes glinting. “Sweetie. Why else would I be interested in it? It’s not worth much as just an antique.”

“So you know that the supernatural really exists, and this is what you do with it?” says Dean incredulously. “You steal things and fence them off?”

“I procure unique items for a select clientele,” says Bela, staring back at him unabashedly.

“And the ad for the bullets was you ‘procuring’ the Colt?” asks Sam. It’s a clever ruse, he has to admit. He supposes he ought to be impressed, but Bela’s air of superiority almost makes him wish she _were_ a demon, so that he would be justified in firing salt rounds at her.

She turns her cold smile on him again. “Aren’t _you_ a sharp tack.”

Sam draws in a breath to respond, but before he can form the words, he’s distracted by a flicker of movement behind Bela, on the other side of the kitchen island where he can’t quite see what’s causing it. His fingers tighten on the handle of his gun as he stares, trying to catch the movement again. Bela might be human, but she could have some sort of demonic crony with her in the apartment.

“Sweetheart, you have no idea what you’re messing with, here,” Dean is saying flatly, shaking his head at Bela.

“Actually, I have an even better idea than you do,” she retorts.  

Sam doesn’t bother listening to Dean scoffing at this; he’s more worried about the dark shape now edging around the kitchen island. He steps forward so that he’s shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean, who apparently still hasn’t seen the potential danger, and nudges him firmly. Dean breaks off what he’s saying to look over at him blankly.

“What?”

Sam nods towards the kitchen. Dean looks at the spot he indicates, and then back again.

“What is it?”

Sam takes his eyes off the dark shape long enough to frown at Dean. True, whatever is lurking behind the kitchen island is hiding itself well, but not well enough to escape a hunter’s notice. Even Bela can see it; she glances over her shoulder, gives a little gasp, and spins around to point the Colt at the thing in the kitchen instead. Sam feels a small flutter of comfort at that; at least it’s not something she brought here to ambush them with. But why can’t Dean seem to see it?

A low growl emanates from behind the island, and Sam abruptly realizes that the shape sticking out from behind it is a claw. A wicked, curved claw of a kind that Sam saw only days before, belonging to….

“A hellhound,” he mutters to Dean. “Stalking her.”

Dean blinks at him for a second, then looks to where Bela is now standing with her back to him, facing the kitchen. “Wow. Just when I thought my opinion of you couldn’t get any lower.”

“What are you talking about?” Bela snaps, not taking her eyes from the creature now emerging fully from behind the kitchen island.

The hellhound chooses that moment to pounce.

Sam fires instantly, suddenly very glad after all that he has salt rounds instead of regular bullets. This hellhound is just as horrifying a sight as the last one, but he’s also very glad that he can see it as his shot tears into its shoulder, and it snaps and snarls for a moment before lunging forward again. Bela stumbles backward, also firing; she hits the thing too, but the Colt is loaded with regular bullets, and they don’t seem to have much effect.

“Bela! Give Sam the Colt!” Dean shouts, firing his own gun blindly. All of his shots go wide, but Sam makes up for it by hitting the creature in its twitching, snuffling nose three times in quick succession.

“No, give me the bullets!” screams Bela. “It’s coming for me because I didn’t get them!”

“Give Sam the Colt and he can kill the damn thing!” roars Dean.

The hellhound is writhing on the floor, making a horrible, ear-splitting noise that Sam supposes indicates pain and swiping at its own nose with its overgrown claws. Sam wishes he could look away, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the creature as he holds out his hand, and Dean slaps the four numbered bullets into his palm. Sam tosses his empty pistol to the floor with a clatter, and holds out his other hand, waiting.

“Bela,” says Dean warningly. “Would you prefer we let that hellhound rip you to shreds? Cause believe me, that’s what _I’d_ prefer.”

There’s another split second of waiting, but then the smooth handle of the Colt plunks into Sam’s grasp and he smiles grimly. He loads the bullets quickly and deftly, thankful now for the way Dean bullied and bossed him into learning all the weapons in the Impala’s trunk when he first left Stanford. The cylinder loaded, he pulls back the hammer and takes aim directly between the hellhound’s eyes.

The Colt gives a louder crack than usual when it fires, as if in celebration of being paired with its proper ammunition again. The bullet strikes solidly, knocking the hellhound back to the floor. For a second, nothing happens. Then the hellhound’s body spasms as jolts of white light crackle like electricity from the entry point, flickering all over its body. The three of them watch, shading their eyes against the brightness, as it gives a last howl and collapses.

“So,” says Dean, turning to Bela as soon as Sam gives him a nod to confirm that the hellhound is dead. “You made a little deal, huh? Not sure how much a soul like yours could buy, but I hope it was worth it.”

Bela has lost the smooth, confident grace she displayed when they first entered her apartment; she’s pale, trembling, her eyes wide.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she tells Dean, trying to glare, but the waver in her voice somewhat ruins the effect.

“You’re right about that,” says Dean contemptuously. His eyes meet Sam’s over her head, and Sam knows what he’s thinking, because he’s thinking it too. Their mother’s choice to sell her soul might have been selfish, but at least she was motivated by love. Even Hudson made his deal for his family. But somehow, Sam doesn’t think that Bela’s deal was founded on such noble considerations.   

“So you’re hell’s bitch,” says Dean, looking back at Bela with narrowed eyes. “You ever hear of a demon called Azazel?”

Bela looks away.

“You’re working for him, aren’t you?” says Dean. “This whole thing was a setup!”

“Azazel knew you had the gun,” whispers Bela. “One of his operatives saw you with it in Indiana.”

“Meg,” Dean mutters to Sam, and Sam nods back.

“Azazel was afraid you might discover a way to make more bullets for it,” Bela continues. “So he ordered me to get it back from you before he tried to move in on Sam.”

At these words, an ice cube seems to slip down Sam’s spine from nape to tailbone. Dean shifts his weight onto his toes, leaning ever so slightly towards Sam, as though preparing to spring in front of him.

“What the hell do they want him for?” demands Dean.

Bela shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

Dean doesn’t look very satisfied with that answer, but before he can say anything else, the faint sound of a police siren filters into the apartment from the street outside. Belatedly, Sam realizes how much noise they must have made fighting the hellhound. He wishes he hadn’t had to fire his gun quite so many times.

“Son of a bitch. We better scram,” says Dean.

Sam couldn’t agree more. He makes to tuck the Colt, still loaded with its three remaining bullets, into his waistband.

“I don’t think so,” says Bela.

Sam and Dean both look up at her in surprise. She’s still pale, but her gimlet-eyed confidence is firmly back in place, and she’s holding a small silver pistol trained squarely on them.

“I knew we should have let the hellhound take you,” says Dean.

She grins at him. “So I owe you one, yeah? Tell you what. Hand over the Colt— _and_ the bullets—and I’ll distract the cops until you’re away.”

Sam surprises even himself with the laugh that comes out of his mouth. It’s short and harsh, not at all like his usual laugh. When he speaks, his voice, too, is different, low and gruff, more like Dean’s than his own. “Sure, we’ll leave,” he says. “Have fun escaping from the next hellhound Azazel sends after you.”

“Maybe not such a sharp tack after all,” says Bela sardonically. “You didn’t think I was actually going to deliver the Colt to Azazel, did you?”

“So you’ll use the Colt on that hellhound. What about the one after that, and the one after that? There’s only three bullets left,” Sam points out.

“I’ll find a way to make more.”

“If there is one. And you’d have to find it quick.”

Bela stares at Sam, the barrel of her pistol drifting towards the floor as her hands start to tremble again. Sam decides to take pity on her.

“Let us take the Colt,” he tells her, “and we’ll show you how to hide from the hellhounds. _And_ the demons.”

Next to him, Dean gives a sudden twitch, but when Sam raises his eyebrows at him he just shrugs, nods, and lifts one corner of his mouth in a wry smile. Sam can’t help giving a small smile in return. He doesn’t think Bela is very deserving of their protection either, but he'd rather have her around than Azazel. They need those bullets.

“I could keep them at bay indefinitely?” asks Bela, watching Sam carefully.

“Longer than the Colt would buy you, anyway,” says Sam. “If you keep off the radar.”

Bela considers him a moment. The sirens grow louder.

“Done,” she says.

*S*P*N*

It’s a good thing Bela agreed to the deal, Sam thinks later, because they would never have gotten past the cops surrounding the building without her smooth charm. (In fact, Sam thinks it likely that Dean, if left to his own devices, would have gotten them arrested.) They bring her over to the Impala, and Sam stuffs a duffel full of hex bags, devil’s shoestrings, salt, and goofer dust, explaining the use of each item as he goes, and hands it over to her.

“Cheers,” says Bela, shouldering the bag. “Goodbye, lads.”

“Good riddance,” mutters Dean, watching her walk away.

“At least we got what we came for,” says Sam, pulling the Colt from his waistband and handing it to Dean.

“True.” Dean holds the gun level with his eyes and speaks directly to it. “Don’t ever leave me again.” Then he throws the spare revolver unceremoniously back into the trunk and replaces it with the Colt.

Sam closes the trunk and walks over to the passenger side door, waiting for Dean to get in and unlock it. He doesn’t pay much attention until a curse from the other side of the car makes him look up.

“That _bitch!”_

“What?”

“She stole my wallet!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this little caper! Bela is one of my favorite minor characters, so I had a lot of fun writing these two chapters. Next week will bring our final flashback!


	16. Interlude

**October, 2001**

Sam has already spent over a month at Stanford before he decides to call home.

At first, he’s simply too busy with freshman orientation, meeting what feels like hundreds of new people, and keeping up with his classes to even think about home very much, unless it’s to notice how peaceful life is without Dean’s constant snide remarks about how much of a nerd someone has to be to get a full ride to Stanford. And then, even when he does start feeling homesick, he resists the urge to call because he doesn’t think he can endure any more ridicule. He already knows what Dean thinks of his college education; his refusal to see Sam off made it clear enough. Sam doesn’t need to hear it again.

Eventually, though, he gives in, and dials his aunt and uncle’s landline. He waits, strangely nervous, through four rings. It’s a Saturday, late afternoon, which Sam deliberately chose as a time when everyone was likely to be both home and awake, so he has no idea who will answer.

Tommy finally picks up, to Sam’s mingled relief and disappointment.

“Good to hear from ya, buddy,” he says jovially. “We were getting worried that you didn’t call sooner.”

“Sorry—been busy—” says Sam, distracted by his uncle’s use of the word _we._ Is that supposed to mean just Cheryl and Tommy, he wonders, or does it include Dean, too?

Tommy starts to reply, but doesn’t get far before Cheryl snatches the phone away from him.

“Oh, Sam! Finally,” she says. “It’s not very nice of you to forget all about those of us at home, you know.”

“I didn’t forget,” Sam assures her.

“Well then, tell me all about it. How are your classes?” she asks, and Sam spends the next twenty minutes fielding questions about his activities since arriving at Stanford.  

“So how are you guys doing?” he manages to interject finally.

“Oh, we’re all right,” says Cheryl. “Adjusting to the empty nest.”

Sam, who was about to ask to speak to Dean, frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Dean didn’t tell you?” asks Cheryl, surprised. “He left a few days after you did. Some sort of extended road trip. Hasn’t been home since.”

Sam drops into the chair beside his desk, stunned. Dean had mentioned the road trip idea, of course, but for some reason Sam hadn’t thought he’d actually go through with it. It’s hard to imagine the house in Utah without Dean there. It’s also strangely unsettling to think that Sam now has no more clue where Dean is or what he’s doing than he has about John.

“Sam? You there?” says Cheryl’s voice, and Sam realizes he’s been silent too long.

“Yeah,” he says, focusing again with some effort. “Yeah, I’m here. Um, but I’d better go—lots of homework. If you hear from Dean, tell him to call me, okay?”

Cheryl promises to do so, and Sam hangs up, his feeling of homesickness curiously unassuaged.

*S*P*N

Weeks pass, but Sam doesn’t get any calls from Dean. In early November, he comes down with a severe cold, and spends a few days lying in bed, sucking on lozenges and littering his dorm room with used tissues. Eventually, he hits upon the idea of calling home to distract himself from his boredom and misery with some familiar voices.

Unfortunately, Cheryl’s fussing mostly serves to remind him of his illness.

“Make sure you’re drinking plenty of fluids,” she admonishes him.

“I ab,” says Sam thickly.

“Can you get chicken soup in the dining hall?”

“Prob’ly, bud I’b nod gedding oud of bed to find oud.”

“You do sound awfully congested,” says Cheryl. “You should—”

“Cad I talgk to Deed?” Sam interrupts, without thinking.

Cheryl pauses before answering. “Dean’s on his road trip, remember?”

Sam sinks back into his pillows, dejected. He’s been so wrapped up in how terrible he’s feeling, he forgot that Dean isn’t there anymore, that there’s no one to make fun of how silly the congestion makes him sound, no one to act overly grossed out every time he blows his nose, no one to throw wadded-up tissues at in retaliation. No one to make him feel better.

“When’s he comig bagck?” Sam asks, in a whiny tone Dean would surely roll his eyes at. “Thangksgivig?”

“Well, last time we talked to him he said he wouldn’t be able to make it for Thanksgiving, but he’s going to try for Christmas,” says Cheryl.

“You heard frob hib?” exclaims Sam, sitting up so fast he feels lightheaded.  

Again, Cheryl pauses before answering, longer this time. “Yeah, he called last week,” she says finally. Her tone is light, but Sam can hear the frown in her voice. “Sam—”

“Did you tell hib to call be?”

“Sam—”

“Did you?”

Cheryl sighs. “I’m sure he’s just busy, Sam. He’ll call you when he has a chance.”

Dean certainly is busy, Sam thinks darkly. Busy avoiding Sam. There can be no other purpose to this road trip of Dean’s than that—Sam can’t imagine what _else_ he could possibly be up to. Whatever he’s doing to occupy himself is probably too cool for college nerds, anyway.

“You could call him, you know,” Cheryl points out, when Sam has been silent for nearly a full minute. “You have his cell phone number.”

Sam is well aware of this. Dean’s name is there in the contacts list on his own cell phone, standing out tauntingly amongst the rest, but something always prevents him from selecting it. If Dean doesn’t want to be bothered, then Sam would rather not be the one to do the bothering; and almost worse than the possibility of Dean being annoyed at Sam’s call is the possibility that he might simply ignore it.

Of course, the second possibility has already come true, in a way.

Sam gets off the phone with Cheryl, feeling somehow more miserable than he did before he called.

*S*P*N*

Sam somehow doubts that Dean will be home for Christmas, just as much as he doubts that Dean will ever “have a chance” to call him. Which is why, one December day just before the winter break, he catches himself pausing longer than usual on Dean’s name in his contacts list.

The thing is, he’s found himself in a bit of a situation, and there’s no one he wants to talk to more than Dean right now. Cheryl and Tommy are good listeners, but Cheryl tends to fuss and Tommy tends to preach; Sam doesn’t have the patience for them. He has friends at school, of course, but he doesn’t feel comfortable enough with any of them to discuss the issue.

A few years ago, if Sam had asked Dean for advice about girls, he would have known exactly what to expect. Dean would have grinned that mocking grin of his, and teased Sam mercilessly—but all the while his eyes would have been bright with something much more sincere.

Sam isn’t at all certain what to expect now, but he’s desperate enough to risk it. He has to pluck up the courage to ask Jessica out before Brady gets there first, and Dean is the only one who can help him. He takes a deep breath and presses the call button on his cell phone.

He’s not nearly as surprised as he might have been to find that the number has been disconnected.

*S*P*N*

He’s even less surprised when Dean calls Cheryl and Tommy’s landline on Christmas Eve to say that he won’t be coming home after all, and hangs up without asking to talk to Sam.

A month or so later, when Sam calls home to tell Cheryl and Tommy he’ll be staying in California for the summer, he doesn’t bother asking about Dean.

He knows what the answer will be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed these little flashbacks! They were a last-minute addition to the story, but I found them really fun and interesting to write. I'd love to hear any thoughts you may have about them, and/or about the story in general :) 
> 
> See you next week for the beginning of the end! It's already drawing near….


	17. Chapter 17

Sam and Dean spend the next two weeks scouring the newspapers and Internet for any sign of supernatural activity, but without much luck. Dean can’t understand it. Only a month ago, there’d been a spirit or monster in nearly every town they passed on the interstate; now, he and Sam spend whole days first finding their next case, and then driving there. Demon activity is similarly quiet. It seems, now that they finally have a weapon and the name of the demon on whom they must use it, the bastards have all slunk back into the sulphurous pit from whence they came. Dean keeps the Colt, loaded with its numbered bullets, with him at all times anyway, even when they’re holed up in a warded and salted motel room. He hates this inactivity; it feels like the calm before the storm.

It’s with relief, therefore, that he answers his phone one evening to hear Bobby on the other end of the line.

“Hey Bobby. Got something for us?”

“Maybe,” says Bobby. “Where you boys at?”

“Illinois,” answers Dean. They’ve just wrapped up a case involving a tulpa and a pair of paranormal investigators, and they’re back at the motel after having spent several hours at the local library doing research. Dean is sprawled out on his bed, his head starting to hurt from squinting at the tiny print of the newspapers piled next to him. Sam is, as usual, hunched over his laptop at the table, looking as though he also has a headache.

“Well, that’s lucky,” says Bobby. “I got a case for ya in Chicago. I think it might be a demon.”

Dean sits up very quickly, ignoring the way it makes his head pound. “Those murders?” he asks. “One every night for the last week?”

Sam looks up from his computer, frowning. Dean puts the phone on speaker.

“Bingo,” says Bobby. “The police are sayin’ animal attacks, but all the victims have been found inside their homes, which don’t really make sense. Plus—and this sure ain’t makin’ it into the newspapers—all the houses were locked from the inside.”

“You think maybe a hellhound?” asks Sam. He looks rather tense; Dean notices his fingers drumming on the table.

“Could be. I can’t find anything funny about any of the vics to suggest a crossroads deal, though.”

“We’ll check it out,” says Dean. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“You boys be careful,” Bobby warns. “Hellhound or not, this thing looks nasty. And how about callin’ me once in a while to let me know you’re okay?”  

Dean can’t help a faint smile. “We will,” he promises, and hangs up.

Sam is already flipping his laptop closed and standing up from the table. “If we leave now we could make it there by ten,” he says.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. He slowly gets off the bed and begins to gather up the scattered newspapers and the remains of their fast-food dinner, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. Dean expected him to be worried, even scared—after all, for all they know, whatever is killing people in Chicago could be Azazel waiting to pounce—but he appears perfectly calm.

That’s all right, though, Dean supposes. The idea of Sam being anywhere near Azazel scares him enough for the both of them.

It’s an hour’s drive into Chicago. The streets are still busy even this late at night. Dean keeps his hands tight on the steering wheel, his foot tense over the gas pedal, watching the cars and people surrounding them as carefully as he watches the road. He relaxes only slightly when he pulls the Impala up to their accommodations for the night—an abandoned house on an overgrown stretch of road near the middle of the city. The paint is peeling on the outside and the front steps are in splinters, but at least the windows are securely boarded over and the roof looks solid. And, most importantly, no one is around.

“Dude. Do you think this place is safe?” Sam asks, peering up at the house in some trepidation.

“Of course it is,” says Dean, a little more sharply than he’d intended. Does Sam think that Dean would let him stay anywhere that wasn’t safe? “I figured it would be safer than a motel,” he continues, trying to speak more normally. “Better to lay low.”

“Can’t get much lower than this.” Sam shakes his head. “You know, it’s kind of sad that we have to worry about monsters more than street gangs.”

Dean gets out of the car and vaults up onto the weathered porch without replying. He can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound peevish.

The front door is locked, but Dean soon has it creaking open. Inside, the house is dark and empty and, by the feel of it, covered in a good three inches of dust and dirt. Dean toggles a light switch by the door, but isn’t surprised when nothing happens. At least the place is dry. He turns to beckon Sam inside, and he comes in carrying their duffels and wrinkling his nose at the filth. Dean clicks on a storm lantern, sets it in the middle of the floor where it can illuminate the room, and rummages in one of the duffels for the salt canister. Sam busies himself setting up the battery-operated radio and scanning for the local police channel.

It’s nearly half an hour later by the time Dean finishes warding the room. Sam spends the whole time sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor, fiddling obsessively with the radio. Dean supposes he should be glad Sam seems so eager and willing to work on the case, although he thinks it would have been nice to have some help with the warding. He’s laid down every protective charm and spell they have; if the thing currently terrorizing the city _is_ Azazel looking for Sam, he’ll be hard-pressed to find him here.

A voice crackling over the radio interrupts his thoughts. Sam straightens, his hands clenching convulsively. The brief staccato of conversation that follows informs them that two more bodies have just been reported on opposite sides of town.

“ _Two_ bodies?” says Dean, startled. “That’s different. It’s usually only one, ain’t it?”

“Which one do you want?” asks Sam.

Dean stares at him. “What do you mean?” he asks, though he knows exactly what Sam means.  

“Two bodies,” says Sam. “Two of us. You take one, I’ll take the other.”

Dean is shaking his head before Sam is even done speaking. “No. No way. We’re not splitting up.”

Sam rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Why the hell not?”

Dean opens his mouth to enumerate all the reasons why the very idea makes his stomach clench—the demons looking for Sam, not to mention what happened the _last_ time Sam went off on his own, at the very top of the list—but Sam cuts him off.

“Look, if we each take one it’ll be faster, we can meet in the middle and compare notes. The faster we can get a lead, the faster we can find this thing.”

This is true, and if their run-in with Bela Talbot taught Dean anything, it’s that Sam can handle himself during a hunt—but he’s never been less inclined to admit it. “What’s got you in such a hurry?” he asks, stalling.

Sam frowns at him. “Don’t you want to get this over with?”

So that’s it, Dean thinks. Sam wants to get to the monster, get to Azazel, get rid of the threat against his safety, get his foray into the supernatural over with, and get on with his life. Get back to Stanford, back to Jessica, back to normalcy. Leave the Impala on the road where she belongs.

“Uh, yeah,” says Dean quickly, before the silence can grow too strained. His voice comes out hoarse, and he clears his throat uncomfortably. “Yeah. Sure.”

“So—I’ll take the one on the north side, and you take the one on the south?”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, though in his opinion it’s far from okay. He doesn’t know how to articulate this without provoking the bitchface, however, so he just turns away and grabs a few extra knives out of the weapons bag to stick into his boots.

The bronze amulet hangs heavy around his neck.

*S*P*N*

Sam is nervous approaching the crime scene in the back of a taxi, which he’d called before Dean could offer to hotwire a car for him. Not only would it be a supremely bad idea to drive to a crime scene in a stolen car, but Sam doesn’t need Dean’s help with transportation. He’s an adult, and he spent four years navigating Palo Alto on his own before Dean decided to show up.

Now, if only it were so easy to navigate a police investigation without Dean there to lead the way, bluffing past any questions with that disarming smile of his.

But Sam won’t be able to depend on Dean forever. Eventually, his patience is bound to run out—his moodiness over the last few hours, and the ease with which he’d agreed that they should split up, is proof enough of that. Sam has been in the life for nearly six months now; it’s time he started acting like a hunter. It’s time he faced his fears.

Of course, considering what Sam’s biggest fear is, he doesn’t mind starting small.

He takes a deep breath and walks directly up to the sheriff, who’s standing on the front steps of the apartment building with his hands on his hips. Sam ensures he makes eye contact as he approaches, and is relieved to see no demonic shadow in the other man’s gaze. He pulls his fake FBI badge from the inside pocket of his blazer, and flashes it at the sheriff, whose eyes move skeptically from the badge to Sam’s face.

“Aren’t you a little young to be in the field on your own?” he asks.

“My partner’s over at the other crime scene,” Sam explains. Saying it causes him a pang, wondering how Dean is faring on the other side of the city.

The sheriff still looks unconvinced, but he waves Sam under the police tape across the door. “Fourth floor,” he says. “And hold onto your dinner.”

Indeed, when he enters the apartment where the body was found, Sam has to swallow a few times to keep the contents of his stomach where they belong. When he has himself under control, he shows his badge to the sergeant presiding over the various members of the forensic team, who are dusting the room for fingerprints, bagging potential evidence, and photographing the body. Or rather, the _remains;_ for it looks as though the victim has been partially consumed. It’s hard to tell what’s missing, though, as there are so many pieces scattered around, littering the apartment with gore. There’s not much, besides a hellhound’s wicked claws and teeth, that Sam can imagine creating such a grisly scene. The crossroads deal theory is looking more and more likely.

“What can you tell me about the victim?” Sam asks the sergeant.

“Caucasian female, between twenty-five and thirty years of age,” replies the sergeant. “We’re pretty sure it’s Meredith, the girl who owned this place, but we’re going to need dental records to be positive.”

At that moment, a team member comes up to the sergeant holding an evidence bag. “Sir, I think you should see this.”

The bag contains a dusting of yellow powder.

“Is that sulphur?” asks Sam, frowning. None of the lore ever mentioned hellhounds leaving sulphur behind; that’s supposed to be something only demons do.

The sergeant opens the bag and sniffs it, then pulls away, wrinkling his nose. “Yep,” he says, and Sam’s still-queasy stomach gives a lurch.

If these murders are the personal work of a demon, then something much bigger than crossroads deals is happening in Chicago. Sam thanks the sergeant and exits the apartment, taking the stairs down to the ground floor two at a time, and ducking under the police tape. As soon as he’s out of earshot of the crowd of police and medical responders surrounding the building, he reaches for his phone. Before he can dial Dean’s number, however, the phone starts to ring in Sam’s hand. He smiles slightly when he sees the caller ID. Dean must be reading his mind.

“Was there sulphur at your crime scene, too?” Sam asks by way of greeting.

The only response he receives is static. Sam’s smile fades. “Dean?”

“Sam.”

“Dean, we should get back to the house. I think this might be more than a few crossroads deals coming due,” Sam says urgently.

“No. Come to Fullerton Avenue.” Dean’s voice is almost lost in the static. “Warehouse.”

“What? What are you doing there?” Sam asks, not sure why his heart is suddenly beating so fast.

There’s no response, and for a moment Sam thinks he’s lost the connection. Just as he’s about to redial, though, he hears two more words that send him running to the curb, where the taxi he’d hired is still waiting for him.

_“Help me.”_

*S*P*N*

Dean leaves the crime scene on the south side with weak knees and a sick, fluttery feeling in his stomach. It’s not the horrific state the body was left in that’s causing his hands to tremble as he extracts his phone from his pocket; it’s the other thing he found there—the yellow, sulphurous powder. Whatever has been killing the residents of Chicago, he’s certain it’s much worse than a hellhound or even a crossroads demon. And Sam is out in the city, alone.

Dean checks his phone’s screen. No missed calls. That must mean Sam is okay? Surely he would have called for help if he needed it? Assuming, Dean thinks darkly, he has the chance to call. But surely Sam’s psychic powers will warn him of any demon trying to sneak up on him.

Dean can’t quite keep himself from thinking that Sam might not call even if he did need help.

Dean takes a few deep breaths, trying to reason with himself. Next second, any calm he managed to achieve vanishes as his phone rings in his hand, Sam’s name flashing up on the screen. Dean rushes to answer it.

“Sam? You okay?”

“Dean,” says Sam’s voice. There’s a lot of static on the line, but even so, he sounds scared.

“Where are you, Sammy?” asks Dean, already fumbling one-handed with the keys to the Impala, pressing the phone so hard to his ear that the plastic creaks.

“Warehouse,” says Sam’s voice faintly. “Fullerton Avenue.”

“All right, Sam, hang on. I’m coming,” says Dean.

He wrenches the car door open and flings himself inside. The Impala’s engine thrums to life, and the car leaps forward as Dean presses the gas pedal all the way down to the floor.

The warehouse, when he finds it ten tire-squealing minutes later, is dark and quiet, a sharp contrast to the turmoil of fear swirling in Dean’s brain. He forces himself to pause before getting out of the Impala, checking the flashlight in his pocket, the knives hidden in each of his socks, the spare revolver in a holster under his arm, and the Colt tucked securely into his waistband. The feel of its smooth wooden handle calms Dean slightly. At least he has a guaranteed way to kill whatever son of a bitch dared to take Sam. _After_ he rips its lungs out.

There’s no sign of a threat—demon or otherwise—or of Sam. Dean gets out of the car and shuts the door quietly. The warehouse has no windows, and nothing is moving nearby. Dean clicks on his flashlight with one hand, pulls his spare revolver from its holster with the other, and holds them crossed in front of him as he sets off around the perimeter of the building, sticking close to the wall. He tenses every time he rounds a corner, but goes around three walls without seeing anything but graffitied industrial siding and cracked pavement.

Then, coming up on the last corner, Dean hears movement. He quickly clicks off his flashlight and stows it in his pocket, gripping the revolver with both hands. Whoever is on the other side of the wall doesn’t seem to have noticed his presence; he can see the glow of their flashlight growing stronger and stronger as they approach the corner. Dean waits, pressed against the wall, until the lens of the flashlight pokes into his line of sight. Then he leaps forward, gun at the ready.

_“Dean?”_

It’s a full five seconds before Dean can register what he’s seeing. It’s Sam, not hurt and bloody the way Dean has been trying not to imagine since the phone call, but perfectly okay, staring at him in evident confusion and lowering his gun uncertainly to point at the ground.

“Sam!” Dean finally manages to say, lowering his gun also. “What the hell is going on?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” says Sam, staring at him.

“What?”

“You called? Told me to come here?”

“No, _you_ called,” says Dean, “and told _me_ to come here….”

The realization hits them at the same time.

“Crap,” they say together.

A sharp blow descends on Dean’s head from behind. At the same time, Sam cries out. Dean doesn’t have time to reach out for him before his vision goes black.


	18. Chapter 18

The first thing Dean becomes aware of when he comes to is a tingling numbness in his arms and legs. He lifts his head, which sets off a throbbing ache at the back of his skull, and blinks, trying to bring his surroundings into focus. He’s sitting on the cold cement floor of what must be the warehouse. His back is resting uncomfortably against what feels like a metal pole, and his hands are tied behind him. A large industrial light is humming overhead, casting a dim yellowish glow over the spot where Dean is tied, but leaving the rest of the floor in darkness. Dean twists around, ignoring the pain in his head, and spots Sam tied to another metal pole about ten feet to his left. His eyes are open and alert, and Dean sags back against his own pole for a moment, relieved despite their predicament.

All of that relief disappears, however, when he registers someone standing just inside the circle of light, watching them. A slender girl with a blonde pixie cut.

“Christo,” he croaks, but she barely winces.

“I’ve already been through all that with Sammy here,” says the demon, and Dean feels a flash of pride. It takes more than a blow to the head and a few ropes to take a Winchester out of the fight. “And before you try playing any games with exorcisms,” she continues, pulling a gun from her belt, “let me explain the rules. One of you starts and I shoot the other one.”

“You must really like possessing that poor girl, huh, Meg?” says Dean. Perhaps it would have been better for her if she’d died the first time.

The demon flashes black eyes at him. “Well, I needed something nice to wear for our little date,” she replies sweetly. “And Sam seemed to like this meat suit before.”

She pirouettes on the spot like a model showing off her outfit. The gun in her hand catches the light, and a wave of sickness that has nothing to do with his head injury washes over Dean as he gets a better look at it. The Colt. From what he can tell, his other revolver and both of his knives are also missing—not that it seems likely he’ll be able to slip free of his bonds in order to use them. Even his lockpicks seem to have been taken. The ropes are cruelly tight, and prickly bolts of pins and needles are now shooting up and down his arms.

“What do you want?” comes Sam’s voice harshly from Dean’s left. Dean turns to look at him; he’s sitting rigidly against his pole, his eyes fixed on Meg.

“To talk to you,” says Meg, taking a few steps to stand directly in front of him. “Just to talk, Sam.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk to you.”

Meg smiles in a way that makes Dean’s skin crawl. “But don’t you want to know why we’ve been looking for you? Don’t you want to know about our big plan?”

Sam says nothing, but Dean can see the spark of curiosity in his eyes as he stares back at her.

“It’s something to do with my powers, right?” he asks finally.

“That’s right,” says Meg. “You’ve got a lot of potential, Sam. We’d just like to help you develop it.”

Dean doesn’t like the sound of this one bit, so he’s relieved when Sam replies, “No, thanks.” Still, Dean thinks he could have said it with a lot more conviction.

“So—what?” says Meg. “You’re just going to waste it? Just gonna hop back into that dumpy old car and follow your brother around like a good little puppy?”

Pain crackles up Dean’s arms as his fists clench. He glances desperately at Sam, craning his neck, but Sam is still focused on Meg, with that same rapt, fascinated expression he had back in Burkitsville. Dean likes it even less this time.

“I thought that’s why you went to Stanford, because you knew you were meant for better than that.”

“And joining forces with _you_ would be better?” asks Sam. Dean is somewhat reassured to hear the revulsion plain in his voice. He relaxes slightly against the pole.

Next second, he tenses up again. It could be his eyes playing tricks on him—he did take quite a blow to the head, after all, if the throbbing in his skull is anything to go by—but he’s pretty sure he just saw something moving, flitting around just outside the circle of light from the overhead lamp.

“We can show you how to harness those powers of yours, Sam,” Meg is saying. “I know you have visions and special sight, but you could do much more if you let us teach you. You could take over the world.”  

“I think I’ll pass,” says Sam.

“Come on, Sammy. Are you going to let your mother’s death be in vain? She sold herself so that you would live to fulfill this destiny.” Meg gestures expansively, throwing her arms wide, smiling her terrible smile. “This is what you were born for.”  

“I should never have been born at all,” says Sam. For the first time his voice wavers, and Dean’s heart twists in his chest.

“Aw, poor little Sammy,” says Meg, her voice sickly sweet, her bottom lip sticking out in a grotesque pout. “Sounds like you could use some encouragement.”

Dean forces himself to keep his expression blank as she stows the Colt in her belt, pulls one of his own knives from her boot, and twirls it in her fingers, her black eyes fixed meaningfully on him. His head is throbbing so hard he thinks he might pass out again—which would be good for undergoing torture, but not so good for facing whatever is lurking in the shadows nearby—for Dean sees the flicker of movement again just as Meg steps toward him.

“You bitch,” Sam gasps, as she takes another slow step in Dean’s direction, still twirling the knife, her smile back in place.

“Sticks and stones, Sammy,” says Meg, taking another step. “Are you going to play nice or not?”

“If you touch him—!”

“You gonna stop me?” taunts Meg, now standing directly in front of Dean. “Well, I suppose you could if you knew how to use your powers.”

Dean stares up at her coolly, fighting to keep his expression blank as Sam lets out a wordless howl that makes his gut clench. Meg raises the knife. Dean’s instinct is to close his eyes, but he keeps them fixed on the knife’s point, not wanting to look weak—for Meg or for Sam he isn’t sure.

“Last chance,” says Meg, over Sam’s yells. “Stop me now, Sam. Use your powers.”

“Don’t do it, Sam!” shouts Dean. He doesn’t really know why he says it, since he can’t see any other way out of the situation; he only knows he’s suddenly much more afraid of what Meg might want from Sam than he is of the knife.

“Shut up,” Meg growls at him, her voice deepening alarmingly, no longer remotely sweet. Her fingers tighten on the handle of the knife. Before she can bring it down, however, the thing that’s been lurking out of sight the whole time steps into the circle of light.

Sam’s cries abruptly cease. Dean stares, almost forgetting the knife poised above him. The thing is humanoid, but freakishly tall and thin, almost emaciated. Dull, brownish skin is stretched tightly over its spindly limbs. Each of its fingers ends in a curved nail so long and yellow it might be better described as a talon. Dean has never encountered such a creature before, but he’s seen drawings in John’s journal. It’s a wendigo.

“What do you want?” Meg snaps at it.

“Hungry,” it moans.

“You’ve had your meat,” says Meg dismissively.

The wendigo edges forward, its tongue curling around sharp teeth to lick its lips. “You promised….for the phone calls…”

Were Dean’s hands free, he would bury his face in them. The whole case was a setup, a wendigo acting on Meg’s orders. And he let Sam walk right into it. No wonder Sam would rather be off on his own—he’s not much safer with Dean than without him.  

“Shut up,” says Meg. “I’m busy.” She turns back to Dean, her grip tightening on the knife.

But Dean isn’t watching the knife. He’s too busy looking over her shoulder at the wendigo, which is suddenly right behind her.

“Hungry,” it insists, and takes a great swipe at her with its talons.

Meg shrieks, dropping the knife in order to press her hand to the long, deep gashes striping her side. Blood spurts between her fingers. Dean feels a few warm droplets pelt his face. Turning to face the wendigo, Meg fumbles at her belt for the Colt, but the wendigo, roaring, takes another great swipe with its talons and knocks it out of her hand. It skitters over the floor and fetches up against Dean’s feet. Gasping and bleeding, Meg seems to decide running is her only option, but she slips in a puddle of blood and goes crashing to the floor. Immediately, the wendigo is upon her, and, a moment later, Dean sees a cloud of black smoke erupt from her mouth, boil up to the ceiling, and vanish.

Watching the wendigo tear into her meat suit, he hopes the girl called Meg Masters was already dead before the demon left her.

“Dean, you okay?” calls Sam.

“Fine,” says Dean. He doesn’t take his eyes from the wendigo, though he would very much like to. It’s stripping the flesh from her bones faster than a school of piranhas. They have minutes, at most, before it finishes with her and comes after him and Sam. “Gotta get out of here, though. How are your ropes?”

“They’re too tight. I can’t move!” Sam, so calm and controlled while talking to Meg, sounds close to panic now.

“Okay,” says Dean, trying to sound reassuring. “It’s okay. We’ll think of something.”

But even as he says it, a horrible crunching and slurping noise tells him that the wendigo is sucking the marrow from Meg’s bones. Still gnawing on what looks like a femur, it turns slowly on the spot until it’s facing Dean.

“Dean….” says Sam, his voice high-pitched like a little boy’s.

“I see it, Sam,” he says. What he _can’t_ see is something to do about it. If only he could get a hand free, then he could reach the Colt and shoot this bastard. He struggles against his bonds, ignoring the pain and numbness in his arms, but he’s practically immobile.

The wendigo creeps forward, a sickly smile on its red-smeared lips.

“DEAN!” Sam bellows. _“NO!”_

Dean opens his mouth, but the only thing he can think of to say is that this is going to happen whether Sam gives his permission or not. The wendigo will make quick work of him, trussed up as he is like a chicken for roasting. And then it will move on to Sam, and Dean will be beyond even trying to prevent it.

It’s that thought that hurts him the most.

It’s hardly crossed his mind, however, before Sam lets out another wordless yell, and Dean feels a lurch and a pull somewhere behind him. A great weight tugs him to the side and, with a clang of metal, he crashes to the ground, groaning at the pressure on his aching shoulders. It takes him a second to realize what happened. The pole he was tied to has been ripped from its moorings.

The wendigo, apparently as surprised as Dean is, hesitates.

Dean springs into action. Willing his numb legs to move, he scoots along the floor until he can slip his ropes off the end of the pole. There’s an unpleasant feeling of blood rushing back to his hands as he frees them, but they still seem to be working properly, so he loses no time in seizing the Colt and firing a bullet directly into the wendigo’s brain.

There’s a spectacular crackle of white light. Then the monster falls backwards onto the floor, dead.  

Sam is hanging limply in his bonds, his head drooping onto his chest, a trickle of blood dribbling from his nose onto his shirt. A fresh jolt of adrenaline sends Dean rushing over to him, but he seems fine, if a bit dazed.

“What the hell was that?” Dean demands, untying Sam’s ropes and yanking him to his feet. “More of those freaky mind powers?”

Sam grimaces, rotating his shoulders and flexing his muscles gingerly. “Yeah, I guess.” His nose is bleeding.

“So, what, are you Carrie now, or something?”

“I don’t know,” says Sam, now massaging his temples with his eyes closed. “Never done that before. And I don’t ever want to do it again. My head is killing me.”

Dean clenches his teeth against a sudden swell of anger. He wouldn’t have had to do it at all if he’d just listened to Dean in the first place. Not trusting himself to say anything, Dean leaves Sam cradling his head in his hands and approaches the remains of Meg Masters.

“Ugh,” he mutters under his breath, pressing a hand to his mouth as though to force back the bile rising in his throat. It isn’t a pretty sight. The wendigo devoured every bit of soft flesh it could find, even the cartilage of the ribs and between the joints. The bloodstained bones are scattered around the floor, many of them splintered and covered in teeth marks.

At least Meg Masters will never have to endure demonic possession again.

Grimacing, Dean picks through the pile of bones and shreds of bloodied clothing until he finds his two knives, wiping them clean on the leg of his jeans. Neither his spare revolver nor any of Sam’s weapons are there, however, which makes him wonder if Meg could have given them to an accomplice.

Just as this thought occurs, a strange howl echoes through the warehouse. It doesn’t sound close by, but to Dean’s experienced ears it definitely sounds like it could be something supernatural. Alarmed at the possibility, Dean stuffs the knives back into his boots and hurries over to Sam, who is pinching his nose to stop its bleeding.  

“C’mon, we need to get out of here.”

Dean isn’t sure how they manage to get out of the warehouse, as it’s pitch black outside the circle of light they’d been in, and their flashlights have disappeared along with Sam’s weapons. But somehow they stumble into a door and onto the cracked pavement outside, where the Impala is waiting for them like an old, faithful dog. Dean has rarely been more relieved to see her.

Sam leans back in his seat when he gets in, and puts his hands over his face, clearly still suffering from his psychic-induced headache. It makes Dean’s guts twist with anger, and this time, he speaks up.

“See?” he asks, ignoring Sam’s wince at his harsh voice. “This is what happens when I let you go off on your own.”

“I don’t need you to babysit me, Dean,” says Sam. His words are muffled under his hands, but his exasperation comes through loud and clear.

“Yeah, sure you don’t.” Dean shakes his head, his jaw clenched, as he starts the car and pulls away from the warehouse. “You’re the one with all the psychic crap, and you still can’t even tell when something’s wrong.”

“You know what? You’re right,” says Sam, dropping his hands into his lap so that Dean can see his glare. “I definitely should have known it wasn’t you when I got that phone call. When have you ever actually picked up the phone and called me when it was important?”

“I’m just sayin’, you need to be more careful. If I have to come save your ass from that demon bitch one more time—”

“Excuse me? As I recall, it was _me_ saving _your_ ass back there.”

“Yeah, and you played right into Meg’s hands to do it!” says Dean loudly. He thumps the steering wheel, not knowing how else to express his feelings. “Just like you did in Burkitsville!”  

“So, what, I was supposed to let her torture you?” says Sam, his voice rising to match Dean’s. “I was supposed to let the wendigo eat you?”

Dean can’t think of a response to that, so he keeps his eyes on the road. After a moment, Sam continues, “At least we know why Azazel is looking for me now.”

“Yeah, like it wasn’t obvious he wanted a piece of those freaky powers,” Dean mutters.  

Sam sighs and rubs at his forehead, half turning in his seat so that he’s facing towards the window, away from Dean. He doesn’t reply.

The rest of the drive is silent until Dean pulls up outside the abandoned house they’re staying in. He cuts the Impala’s engine, but doesn’t get out; instead, he turns to look at Sam, who is completely immobile in the passenger seat, still turned resolutely toward the window. The silence is even more pronounced without the noise of the car.

“What does it matter why Azazel’s looking for you, anyway?” Dean asks, as though there had been no break in their conversation. It comes out more pleading than he’d intended. “This whole thing was supposed to be just finding him, sending him back where he came from, and avenging Mom, not having tea and crumpets with the bastard.”

Sam doesn’t turn back to face him, but he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Well, like it or not, Dean, it’s bigger than that now. Azazel’s got to be planning something—how about you focus on that, instead of hovering over me?”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” Dean shakes his head, uncomprehending. What did Sam mean by giving him the amulet, if not that he wanted Dean there to look out for him?

“Like I said, I don’t need you to babysit.”

It’s a moment before Dean can speak again. When he does find his voice, it comes out flat and strange-sounding. “Well if that’s how you feel about it, maybe you should just go.”

Sam’s voice is as flat as his own. “Maybe I should.”  

They stare at each other for a second. Dean has no idea what Sam sees in his face; he’s not sure there’s an expression that could communicate what he is feeling at the moment. For his part, Sam just looks resigned. Then he throws open the passenger side door, gets out stiffly, and disappears into the house. Dean stays sitting in the driver’s seat, staring at the stretch of overgrown sidewalk illuminated in the Impala’s headlights, feeling just as numb as he did upon waking up tied to a pole inside the warehouse.

Sam soon reappears, carrying his duffel bag over his shoulder, crossing through the beam of the headlights.  

“Hey, Sam?” says Dean, getting quickly out of the car.

At the edge of the shadows, Sam turns back. Dean is certain it’s just a trick of the light that makes his expression look suddenly hopeful.

“Take this,” he says, holding out the Colt to Sam. After a moment’s hesitation, Sam steps over to him and reaches out to grasp the Colt’s handle. But Dean holds tight to the barrel, waiting for Sam’s eyes to flick up to his. “Take care of yourself.” It’s surprisingly hard to say it, hard to acknowledge that _he_ won’t be doing that job anymore.

Sam nods. “You too.”

And with that he strides away, leaving Dean with only the car for company.


	19. Chapter 19

Sam spends the next week hitchhiking westward from Illinois. People of all kinds stop to pick him up, from young families to grouchy old truck drivers, but Sam doesn’t talk to any of them beyond asking to be dropped off in the next town that has a public library with an Internet connection, and he looks carefully into all of their eyes before boarding their vehicles, checking for any demonic shadow. When they let him off, he stays only long enough for some research and a night of fitful sleep before heading back to the highway, walking until someone offers him a ride.

Sitting hunched at a library table now, sifting through hundreds of dubiously credible websites looking for some clue about the demons’ plan, Sam thinks grumpily that it would be faster and easier just to let Azazel find him. He’s found nothing so far that would explain why the demons might be interested in his psychic abilities, aside from various theology articles condemning them as coming from the devil. On the subject of Azazel himself, Sam reads through what feels like several encyclopedias’ worth of lore. It’s all very murky and difficult to follow, but one consistent thread associates Azazel with Lucifer—a thought that usually has Sam reaching to feel for the Colt tucked into his waistband.

The Colt, of course, reminds him of Dean, which is hardly a more pleasant train of thought. Sam’s life for the last several days hasn’t been much different from the months he spent with Dean; he’s still constantly on the road, still eating mostly fast food, still laying down salt lines and warding sigils before he goes to bed. But somehow, none of the cars he’s ridden in since then have felt as much like home as the Impala, the fast food is even less appealing than usual, and no matter how many protection charms he uses he never feels quite as safe as he did when he was with Dean.

There’s no use thinking about that now, though, Sam tells himself, twitching his shoulders irritably. It was Dean’s suggestion that they separate, after all. Sam supposes the amulet he gave to him must have proven to be too much of a burden, especially since he’d just been nearly tortured and then eaten because of Sam. So Sam doesn’t blame Dean for not calling, and he respects Dean’s wishes by not calling him. It’s easy to slip back into the pattern of wondering where Dean is and how he’s doing, so familiar to Sam from his years at Stanford.

It’s getting dark outside and the library is nearly empty. With a sigh, Sam stands up from his table and slings his bag over his shoulder. He’s been avoiding motels, opting instead for the same sort of abandoned house Dean picked out in Chicago. They’re squalid and depressing, but that fits his mood.

The librarian says goodnight to Sam as he passes the front desk on his way to the door. He glances at her, not paying much attention.

She smiles. A horrible, sharp-toothed, hungry smile.

Sam stares, his heart suddenly pounding. The girl’s face is still smiling sweetly at him, but underneath he can see the demon leering, its black eyes gleaming like an insect’s beneath hers.

His first instinct is to grab for the Colt, but he doesn’t draw it. This demon is only a minion, Sam is certain, a spy, a scout—he needs to save the Colt’s remaining bullets for Azazel. Whom he might be meeting sooner than anticipated if he doesn’t get out of here. The demon laughs as Sam scrambles for the door, and he sprints blindly outside, not stopping until he reaches a dark alley two streets away, where he hunches over, breathing hard.

A rustle from farther down the alley makes him start violently. He retreats rapidly, back out onto the sidewalk where a streetlamp is casting a yellow circle of light, his finger straying towards the handle of the Colt again—but it’s only a ragged old man, emerging from a tattered and stained sleeping bag that was tucked up against the wall of the alley.

“Any spare change, sir?” he asks in a hoarse, rasping voice.

“Um,” says Sam, continuing to back away as the old man sidles nearer and nearer, “no, I—”

The man steps into the glow of the streetlamp, and Sam sees its light reflected in solid black eyes. This time he doesn’t stop to stare; he’s running almost before he’s registered what he’s seen.

He slows again when he’s put a few streets between himself and the second demon, and continues walking at a brisk but normal pace, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

A woman passes him on the sidewalk. Their eyes meet briefly. Hers are demon-black.

Sam forces himself to keep walking, and the woman passes him without speaking or making any attempt at contact.

There are at least three demons in this town, Sam thinks, and he has to assume they know who he is; but they haven’t tried to come after him, which must mean they’re only keeping tabs on him until Meg or Azazel arrives. Sam is carrying several hex bags with him, and a devil’s shoestring is braided around his wrist, but he’s still exposed and vulnerable out here on the sidewalk. He needs to get to the house where he’d planned to spend the night and surround himself with salt, goofer dust, and protection symbols. And even that might not be enough to stop a demon like Azazel.

He’s glad he has the Colt. But he’d like it even better if Dean had the Colt, and were here beside him.

There’s a man sitting on the front steps of a house Sam passes, smoking a cigarette. He, too, has black eyes.

By now, Sam is walking so fast he’s nearly running again. That’s at least four demons waiting in the wings. Sam is quickly becoming worried that the Colt might not be the trump card it seems. There are only two bullets left, after all; one for Azazel and one for Meg. But then what about the other demons? He’ll never be able to trap and exorcise them all.

Finally, Sam arrives at the abandoned house, a once-homey suburban two-bedroom not unlike the old house in Lawrence. He glances around before entering, and, seeing no one, slips inside. Immediately, he pulls his flashlight from his pocket, clicks it on, and rifles through his bag for the salt canister. He extracts it hurriedly, and begins laying down lines at the doors and windows, trying not to notice how light the canister is, and how distressingly thin some of the lines are.

The salt runs out before he can cover the last door.

Sam shakes the empty canister a few times, as though doing so will cause it to magically refill itself. When that doesn’t happen, he tosses it aside in frustration and rummages through his bag again for the can of spray paint. He might not be able to salt that door, but he can still ward it.

Halfway through shaking the can of spray paint, he stops. He could seal himself in this room, sure, but then he’d be little better off than a cat chased up a tree by a barking dog. The demons, like the dog, know where he is and can wait indefinitely; and, like the cat, Sam will have to come out eventually.

It’s not as if Dean is coming to rescue him. And besides, wasn’t Sam just thinking this whole thing would be better if he just let Azazel find him?

There’s one thing he can’t let Azazel find, though. The Colt.

Dropping the paint can back into his bag, Sam sweeps his flashlight beam around the room. The floor is covered in at least ten years’ worth of dust and dirt, but in the bare patches disturbed by his footsteps he can see that it’s hardwood. Perfect.

He drops to his knees, wiping a section of floor clean in the corner of the room, then sits back on his heels, clutching a small dagger that he usually keeps in his boot. This he uses to work under the nails at either end of one floorboard. His face is sweaty with fear and exertion by the time he finally pries up first one, then the other, with a horrible screech of metal on wood. Then, fumbling in his haste, he removes the floorboard and sets the Colt carefully in the hollow below.

He leaves the nails somewhat raised when he hammers them back in with the hilt of the little dagger. Hopefully it will be enough of a clue for Dean, if he ever comes looking for his Colt.

Sam has barely finished replacing the nails and moving away from the hiding spot when the front door of the house swings open. He doesn’t recognize the man standing there, but the man recognizes him.

“Hello, Sam. I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”

In the light of Sam’s flashlight, the man’s eyes gleam yellow.

*S*P*N*

Dean normally spends the down time after a case driving aimlessly, until another lead pulls his steering wheel in a specific direction. He finds it comforting—no monsters, no killing, no fear like a constant background noise, just him and the car and the road. And Sam.

This time, though, he finds himself pulling off the highway at the first town he comes to. It just doesn’t feel right, anymore, driving along without someone in the passenger seat.

Normally, too, Dean wouldn’t stay more than a few days in any one place, even if there wasn’t a case calling him away. But this time, once he’s installed himself at the local bar, he just can’t seem to summon the motivation to climb back into that empty Impala, or to scrounge up any leads that he would have to follow with no backup. So he spends a solid week (eight days, to be exact—not that Dean is counting) drinking whiskey and and trying not to think about the bitchface Sam would be giving him if he could see him now.

In fact, he spends so much time trying not to think about Sam that he ends up circling back around to Sam being the only thing on his mind. When his phone rings, therefore, rattling against the bar where he always sets it while he nurses his whiskey, he’s so sure he knows who it must be that he doesn't even bother looking at the caller ID before answering.

“Sam?”

“No, but I know where he is,” says the voice on the other end.

“Bela,” growls Dean, disappointment turning instantly to anger. “How the hell did you get this number?”

“You had a few business cards in that wallet I lifted off you,” says Bela blithely. “Do people ever actually believe you’re FBI? I would think those baby faces of yours would give you away.”

“What do you want?” snaps Dean, ignoring this.

“I have an offer to make,” says Bela, more serious now. “An exchange, actually. I know where Sam is, and I know what Azazel is planning for him. I’m willing to tell you, if you’ll give me some information in return.”

Dean sets his glass slowly back on the bar. “Really?” he says, doing his best to sound skeptical rather than desperate. “Because last time you said you didn’t know anything about what the demons were doing.”

“Oh please, did you expect me to give up all my bargaining chips in one sitting?” says Bela, exasperated. “Even you wouldn’t do that. Now, are you interested in my offer, or not?”

Dean sighs. It’s plain that she already knows he won’t refuse the deal—the mention of Sam was enough to guarantee that. “What kind of information do you want?”

“Well, to be honest,” says Bela, while Dean rolls his eyes, “life on the run isn’t _really_ my style. I need better defenses.”

Dean chews his lip, thinking. He and Sam gave Bela every protective charm and sigil they know. But Dean figures not even Sam knows _all_ the lore on what keeps hellhounds at bay. What Bela needs is an expert.

“Tell you what,” he says. “I can tell you how to find a friend of mine who might be able to help. Bobby Singer, you heard of him?”

“I have, actually,” says Bela. “I could have found him myself ages ago, except that I’m also quite certain he’s heard of me. I think he’s more likely to shoot me on sight than to help me.”

“Well, tell him I sent you,” says Dean. “He might still shoot you, but he’ll probably hear you out first. Do we have a deal?”

A swell of static over the line tells him Bela has just let out a deep sigh. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Dean smiles. “Ladies first.”

 


	20. Chapter 20

“Likewise,” says Sam, drawing out his silver handgun and training it on the yellow-eyed demon. “You must be Azazel.”

Azazel grins at him, advancing into the room. It would probably be a nice, friendly smile on a human, but on the demon it’s little more than the gleaming of bared teeth in the darkness.  

“Oh, Sam,” he says, nodding at the handgun, “I’m disappointed. You must know there’s only one gun that can hurt me, and that ain’t it.”

“Sorry,” says Sam, keeping his eyes fixed on Azazel’s yellow ones. “This is the best I could do.” He must not so much as glance towards the corner, or he’ll give away his hiding spot. He doesn’t want to even imagine Dean’s reaction if he lost the Colt—and besides, if his current plan doesn’t succeed, he needs to make sure Dean still has a chance of finishing the job. As he speaks, he edges carefully backward, gripping his handgun tightly to keep it steady in front of him.  

“Shame,” sighs Azazel. “I was looking forward to getting the Colt back.” He shrugs waving a hand. “Oh well. Finally getting to meet you is more than enough compensation.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” asks Sam, now inching forward at a precise, calculated angle, dragging his feet through the dust on the floor.

“Ah, I was hoping you would ask that,” says Azazel. He tilts his head back and takes a deep breath of the stale, dusty air. ““It’s a glorious time to be alive, Sam. A plan decades in the making is coming to fruition, and you get to be right in the center of it.”

“Because of the psychic stuff? You want me to help you somehow?” asks Sam, trying to keep Azazel distracted and talking as he slides backwards again. He has to admit it’s nice to finally be getting some answers, although, on the whole, he’d much rather that Dean were here and the two of them had already taken the demon out.

“Right on the money,” says Azazel, turning to grin at him as he moves. “There’s a door. A gate, to be precise. It will only open to your hand. All you need to do is open that one little door, and your army can join you.”

“My army?” says Sam, pausing as he starts another step forward.

“That’s right, Sammy. An army all your own. My brethren and I have been waiting for you longer than the Jews have been waiting for the Messiah. All that’s needed is a little cooperation from you, and you’ll be king.”

“That so?” Sam asks slowly. This must be what Meg meant, when she said he could take over the world, he realizes. The demons have chosen him to lead their coup.

Mary definitely made a mistake in saving him, if this is the purpose his life is meant for.

“Think of it, Sam,” says Azazel in a conspiratorial whisper, his yellow eyes gleaming brighter than ever.

“I’ll tell you what I think of it,” says Sam, taking a final step and stopping. He takes a deep breath. _“Exorcizamus te.”_

Azazel’s grin changes suddenly to a snarl of rage, which changes again to a look of surprise when he lunges forward and finds himself brought up short by the pentagram Sam has traced in the dust around him with his footprints.

 _“Omnis immundus spiritus,”_ says Sam.

Azazel claps his hands together, laughing raspily.

“Oh, I knew there was a reason you were the Chosen One,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes, and then looking back at Sam. “Well done. Really clever. You’ve trapped me. This won’t hold me for long, of course—but good effort.”

Sam is aware that the trap he’s drawn is extremely feeble, but he only needs it to hold long enough. _“Omnis satanica potestas, omnis—”_

Azazel makes a sharp gesture. Sam is flung backwards onto the floor, landing in a cloud of dust, the air whooshing out of his lungs.

“Why do that, when you could kill me dead?” says Azazel, grinning again. “You wouldn’t even need the Colt.”

Sam clenches his teeth. The last thing he needs is another weird mind power, when Dean already thinks he’s a freak. He sits up painfully, sucking in a few labored breaths and feeling around for his gun, which dropped out of his hand when he fell. _“Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii,”_ he wheezes.

“Come on, Sam,” Azazel hisses, bearing down on him. “Hell’s too good for me. I killed your parents. Your aunt and uncle too—I gave the order, that one’s on me. Doesn’t it make you angry, what I’ve taken from you? Doesn’t it make you want to give me what I deserve?”

 _“Omnis legio,”_ Sam coughs, scrambling away from him, stirring up even more dust.

“But why stop there, Sam?” asks Azazel, and there’s a horrible note of glee in his voice now. “I want all the prizes in this blame game. After all, it’s my fault your mother got into that car accident way back when.”

Sam’s hand lands on the cool metal handle of his handgun, and, without thinking, he grasps it, turning and aiming it at Azazel’s forehead in one smooth motion. Just like Dean taught him.

“You son of a bitch,” he snarls through clenched teeth. He no longer cares whether or not the silver handgun will kill Azazel; he only cares whether or not it’ll hurt.

Azazel grins even wider. “That’s right, Sammy,” he whispers. “Feel that rage.”

Sam’s finger tightens on the trigger, his teeth grinding together so hard he hears them creak. But he can’t afford such petty revenge. He needs to finish the exorcism.

_“Omnis congregatio et—”_

But at another gesture from Azazel, he finds himself flat on the floor again, this time with his head thumping dully from having cracked against the hardwood.

“You don’t seem to quite understand,” says Azazel, standing over him, and looking down like a parent surveying a tantruming toddler. “You’re going along with us whether you like it or not.”

As he speaks, a fierce wind kicks up outside, rattling the windows and blowing in through the front door. A thick black smoke pours in with it, swirling around the room, picking up dust and debris and flinging it into Sam’s face.

“Not that hard to possess someone, you see,” says Azazel. All that Sam can see of him now through the smoke and dust is the yellow gleam of his eyes. “Just gotta find that one little weak spot and give it a good hard poke. I could do that to you, but that’s messy and complicated, so why not make it easy on yourself and join us?”

“Why would I ever join you?” Sam snaps, his voice hoarse from the dust in his throat. “After everything you did to me?”

“Who’s left for you, besides us?” rejoins Azazel, his voice floating through the haze. “No mother, no father, no Aunt Cheryl or Uncle Tommy. Not even a girlfriend.”

“There’s Dean,” says Sam, although he’s not really sure how true that is anymore.

“Really?” says Azazel, in tones of great surprise. “I don’t see him around. Where is he, Sam? Waiting in the wings to come beat up the big bad bully?”

He pauses, waiting, but Sam says nothing. There’s nothing he _can_ say.

“Nope,” Azazel answers for him. “Dean took off just like Daddy. Got tired of trying to protect you.”

The smoke is now so thick around Sam that he can’t tell the difference between his eyes being closed or open. It might be just a trick of the wind, but he thinks he can hear a strange voice whispering around him, laughing in his ear.

“Really, you can’t blame him,” Azazel’s disembodied voice continues. “This has always been your destiny. Waste of time trying to escape it.”

Sam feels as though he’s drowning. The smoke is swirling around him, inside him, pouring down his throat and into his lungs and stomach, dissolving into his blood.

*S*P*N*

Bela’s information was good, Dean has to admit, as he pokes around in an old abandoned house hardly distinguishable from the one they’d stayed in in Chicago. It’s clear that Sam’s been here; as if the warding sigils covering the walls weren’t clue enough, Dean can make out the remains of salt lines at the doors and windows, and a few dried leaves scattered around that had probably been contained in hex bags.

It’s also clear that Bela’s information, good as it was, comes too late. Sam is long gone, and the room positively reeks of sulphur. The dust covering the floor seems to be at least half composed of yellow powder, and is formed into strange, swirling drifts and ridges, as if a powerful wind swept through the place.

Dean stands up from where he’s crouching, examining the pattern of the dust on the floor. What is he still doing doing here, if this isn’t where Sam is?   

Before he can take a step towards the door, his phone rings. Dean jumps, and nearly drops the phone in his haste to check it. A quick glance at the screen squashes his momentary hope that it’s Sam. He answers with something of a disappointed sigh.

“How’s it goin’, Bobby?”

“I don’t approve of this new lady friend of yours,” Bobby’s voice growls in his ear.

“I didn’t think you would,” says Dean, amused. Bela must have arrived in Sioux Falls. “Did you shoot her?”

“Not yet,” says Bobby, sounding as though he regrets this deeply. “But I’m thinkin’ on it. She’s a slippery little minx, ain’t she?”

“You’re telling me,” mutters Dean, remembering New York.  

“I also think she’s full of crap.”

“Far as I can tell her intel’s about half good, and half crap,” says Dean, kicking through the dust on the floor.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” drawls Bobby. “I mean, I knew she had to be lyin’ when she said you were goin’ after the demon that killed your parents.”

“Well….” Dean doesn’t know what to say. He’s suddenly as tongue-tied and ashamed as if he were ten years old again, and John had just caught him in a silly lie. “I didn’t think she would mention that,” he finishes lamely.

“So it’s true?” Bobby exclaims, so loudly that Dean has to hold the phone away from his ear. “What the hell are you thinking? You know better than to take on a demon like that with no backup!”

“He’s got Sam, Bobby,” Dean whispers. His voice wobbles, quite without his permission. “I’ve got to go after him. He’s got Sam.”

There’s a brief pause. When Bobby speaks again, it’s in a much gentler tone. “So that’s true, too, is it? How’d you boys get separated, anyway?”

Dean shakes his head. The wobble in his voice is even worse when he speaks again. “It was stupid. We had a fight and—” He breaks off.

“Okay,” says Bobby. His tone is gruffer than ever, but it somehow manages to be comforting. “Okay, so the demon got to Sam. Bela says they’ll be takin’ him to Wyoming next—something about a gate?”

“It’s bad, Bobby,” says Dean, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He imagines he can feel ridges and lines that never used to be there before. “All hell is gonna break loose.”

“Okay,” says Bobby again. “But even still, you can’t just go charging in there, Dean. You’ll just get yourself killed, and that won’t do Sam or anybody any good.”

Getting killed is a distinct possibility, but Dean kind of gets now why Mary preferred to make a demon deal rather than outlive Sam. Almost anything, he thinks, would be preferable to that eventuality.

“You don’t even have a viable weapon against this demon,” Bobby says, when he doesn’t reply.

This is true, too. Dean gave the Colt to Sam, and now both are gone, likely both taken by Azazel.

“Just hang tight, will ya, at least until I can get there?” Bobby pleads, but Dean isn’t paying attention. He’s just spotted something. In a corner of the room, several nails are sticking up from the floor. He drops to his knees beside the loose floorboard, and pries it up.

Underneath, the barrel of the Colt gleams in the light of his flashlight, winking at him like an old friend.

“Call you back, Bobby,” says Dean.

*S*P*N*

The black smoke obscures all Sam’s senses; smoke is all that he can see, smell, taste, feel, hear, smoke that burns him as he struggles against it. Even his thoughts are entirely shrouded in smoke. It seeps into every corner of his mind, filling him up so there’s no room for anything else, dissolving him into itself.

He screams at the pain of it, and the smoke swirls maliciously. _You know, you could have saved everyone a lot of trouble if you’d just agreed to the plan,_ it says.  Its voice doesn’t sound familiar—in fact, it doesn’t even have a sound—but Sam knows it’s Meg. _But I’m glad you didn’t,_ she continues. _It’s good to be riding with you, Sam._

The hatred is Sam’s. He owns it. He hangs onto it, covers himself with it, creates a small bubble in the smoke, a clear space in which he can think, can gather himself. _Whatever you want me to do,_ he says, _I’m not doing it._

The black smoke roils and heaves with laughter. _That’s no problem. We only need the body, not the spirit._

 _I’m not doing it,_ Sam repeats, and the little bubble of hatred grows larger. He stretches, pushing back against the smoke.

His vision clears suddenly, though Sam has the horrible feeling that this is more due to Meg’s whim than his own efforts. He quickly finds that he can’t move his eyes the way he wants to in order to take in his surroundings, but they’ve grown familiar enough to him over the last several months that he knows instantly where he is—the passenger seat of a car. He can see a dirt road and an overgrown stretch of railroad through the windshield, illuminated in the headlights. His head turns to the left, but it’s not Dean sitting in the driver’s seat; it’s Azazel. He gives a nod, and Sam’s hand reaches out to pop open the door.

Sam hunkers down in his little bubble while Meg walks up to the railroad, but tendrils of smoke reach out to him, probing, spiraling ever closer.

 _Like I said, this all would have been easier if you’d agreed to the plan,_ says Meg. _You can’t tell from here, but this track runs in the shape of a devil’s trap. And the gate is right in the middle._

Sam smiles from within his haven. This vindictive pleasure is his, too, and he welcomes it, owns it. The bubble expands again. The smoke rages and seethes, but it can’t penetrate the clear space that is all Sam.

 _Guess you’re out of luck, then,_ says Sam.

 _Oh, I don’t think so,_ Meg replies. _Fortunately, you have the mojo to break this bad boy wide open._

With that, the smoke renews its attack, pressing inexorably inwards.

 _Don’t you want to know?_ she asks. _What you’re capable of?_

Sam doesn’t want to know. The psychic powers were what got him into this mess in the first place; they’re the reason he’s here, alone.

His bubble wobbles. Smoke starts to leak through.

As if sensing his thoughts, Meg whispers, _Come on, Sam. If Dean’s going to hate you, might as well give him a real reason._  

The bubble shatters, and Sam is drowning in smoke again. It rushes into the space he cleared, molding itself to his insides, reaching, searching for something deep down.

Sam knows when it finds what it’s looking for, because there’s a twist and a pull as something comes loose, and the pain of it makes him scream again.

The next time his vision clears, it’s to see that the metal rails are broken and twisted, the crossties split and scattered amongst the weeds. Azazel is standing in Sam’s field of vision. He steps over the broken railroad, then spins on his heel to look back.

“Well done,” he says, and Sam understands that he’s addressing this praise to him, and he shrinks down even further.

 _Oh, don’t worry, Sam,_ says Meg, as they walk forward, crunching on dry grass. Sam can make out the dark, lopsided rectangles of old gravestones passing them on either side. _That’s not the only thing you’re going to break tonight._

Another shape is looming out of the darkness now, something much larger than the surrounding gravestones. It’s towards this shape they’re heading, and as they draw nearer, Sam realizes that it’s a crypt. The glow of the headlights has faded behind them, so it’s too dark to make out many details, but he can see that it looks ancient, even older than the rest of the graveyard.

 _Ever heard the story of Pandora’s Box?_ asks Meg, as they come to a halt directly in front of the crypt door. _She was just like you, Sam. She opened the gate and let evil into the world._

Sam watches his arm rise, as though of its own accord, and extend towards the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is nigh, folks. Only one more chapter left.


	21. Chapter 21

The place where Bela says the demons are taking Sam is certainly an out-of-the-way, unexciting one, Dean thinks as he follows a narrow dirt road farther and farther into the Wyoming countryside. There’s been nothing on either side of him for miles except dry grass and weeds. Then again, the middle of nowhere is probably the best place possible for a hell gate to be located.

His headlights suddenly strike a red glow from the reflectors of a car up ahead. Dean slows, and pulls up behind it cautiously. It doesn’t look as though anyone is inside, but its high beams are still on, shining on a mess of twisted metal and wood that clearly used to be a railroad track. Dean shuts off the Impala’s engine and sits for a moment, waiting, checking that all his weapons are in place—the knives in each boot, sleeve, and pocket, the spare revolver in its holster on his right side, the sawed-off loaded with salt rounds on his left.

Last of all, he brushes his fingers over the handle of the Colt in his waistband.

He opens the door of the Impala slowly, so that it doesn’t creak, and shuts it quietly. Then he creeps around to the other car and peers in the windows. It’s definitely empty. Dean sighs. While he’s glad there aren’t any demons waiting in there, he couldn’t quite suppress the hope that finding Sam would be that easy, that rescuing him would be as simple as breaking into a car.

Dean turns to face the destroyed railroad track. It must have been an extremely powerful force to cause this much damage; each rail has actually been snapped, the broken ends ripped up from the ground. The devil’s trap has been broken. If the hell gate is opened, the demon army will be able to escape.

As if Dean needed more incentive to get to Sam quickly. He’s certain Sam will refuse to open the gate, but there’s no telling what the demons might do to him. Dean surveys the twisted remains of the track, chewing his lip, thinking of the warehouse in Chicago, and the pole Sam tore from its moorings. What might the demons have already done to him, to get him to break the devil’s trap like this?

Dean steps over the track, squinting into the darkness. The moon provides only enough light that he doesn’t stumble over the old gravestones littering the ground as he makes his way towards what he judges to be the center of the devil’s trap. He steps quietly, listening intently, but there’s no sign of Sam, Azazel, or any demon.

The crypt seems to emerge from the darkness all at once, as if a curtain has been drawn back to reveal it. It’s huge, and ancient-looking, from what Dean can tell in the dark—but he’s more concerned with the two figures standing at its door. One of them is a man he doesn’t recognize, but whose eyes glow yellow in the darkness. The other is Sam.

For a moment, while Dean hesitates, it seems to him that the scene is frozen, as if in tableau—he takes in the rigid set of Sam’s shoulders, the way one of his hands is reaching out towards the door. He has time to wonder what Sam is doing, why he’s standing there with the demon who has to be Azazel, opening a gate into hell. Then Sam’s hand reaches out a few more inches, grasps the handle of the door, and cracks it open.

Instantly, black smoke rushes through the gap out into the night. A great wind kicks up, accompanied by a terrible howling, whether of air or of actual voices Dean can’t tell. He watches, transfixed, as one bright streak emerges amongst all the black smoke. Its passing illuminates the doorway for a brief moment, and Dean sees Sam’s muscles tense, as though preparing to pull the door wider.

Dean doesn’t hesitate this time. He’s running, yelling, realizing that the gate is unleashing terrible evil, but caring only that his brother is there, surrounded by demons.

“SAM!”

But Sam doesn’t seem to hear him, doesn’t look around, doesn’t even twitch, and before Dean can call again, an invisible force grabs him and flings him backwards.

Dean crashes headlong into a gravestone and slides to the ground, dazed. The next thing he knows, someone is looming over him in the darkness. Rough hands flip him over, rifling among his clothes. He makes a noise of protest and reaches to slap them away, but he’s too late—his fingers brush the stranger’s just as the Colt is ripped away from him. He flips back over and faces his attacker. It’s the yellow-eyed demon who was standing at the crypt door with Sam.

This, then, is Azazel. And he’s just disarmed Dean of the only weapon he has against him.

And he’s taken his brother away. That alone makes Dean want to kill him with his bare hands, magic bullets be damned.  

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” drawls Azazel, spinning the Colt lazily in his hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” says Dean, and Azazel laughs. The sound is caught up in the wind, carried on the swirling black smoke, and it sounds briefly to Dean as though dozens of demonic voices are laughing, not just one.

“I can see where Sam gets the attitude,” Azazel chuckles. Then he glances back over his shoulder towards the crypt. “Look at him. Doing well, isn’t he? You must be so proud.”

“What the hell did you do him?” Dean demands. He can just make out Sam, still standing at the crypt in that oddly rigid posture, muscles straining and pulling at the door.

“I opened his mind. Made him more _receptive_ ,” says Azazel, making a sweeping gesture with the Colt.

“You’ve got some black-eyed bastard riding him, don’t you, you son of a bitch?” Dean asks through clenched teeth. His head is throbbing, anger and pain pulsing inside him like a second heartbeat.

Azazel bows, making mocking little flourishes with the hand holding the Colt. “It wasn’t the original plan, but I think I actually like this better. All the muscle and mojo with none of the angst and whining.”

Dean sits up slowly, his fingers straying to the salt-loaded sawed-off in its holster at his side. Salt rounds won’t kill Azazel, but they’ll certainly hurt—and right now, that seems like an attractive option.

“You know, the only reason I ever let you live was because I thought I might be able to use you to get to Sam. And would you look at that?” Azazel’s smile flashes white, a Cheshire-cat grin floating in the darkness. Behind him, Sam succeeds in yanking the crypt door open a few more inches. “It worked.”

Dean is on his feet now, swaying a bit as the wind buffets him, but he focuses stubbornly on Azazel, using his rage to steady himself. That monster, there, standing before him, is his goal. This monster who has taken both his mother and his father from him.

Dean will be damned if he’ll let Sam be taken, too.

He draws the sawed-off and fires almost in the same motion. The crack of the gun is almost lost in the noise of the wind and the howling, but a red hole appears in Azazel’s forehead. He doesn’t even flinch; instead, he makes a flicking motion with his hand, and Dean is flung backwards again. Pain explodes in his skull, as though the bullet is lodged in his own head, rather than Azazel’s.  

“I have to say, much as I appreciate your help in all this,” says Azazel, while Dean uses a gravestone to pull himself upright again, “you’re a liability, Dean. Always have been.” Dean hears the click of the Colt’s hammer being pulled back. When he looks up, it’s to stare directly down the barrel. “Nothing personal,” says Azazel, his smile vicious now. “Just covering my assets.”

For a split second, Dean wonders whether he could move fast enough to grab the gun before Azazel fires. Next moment, all his calculations are rendered null as a bright figure grabs the demon from behind. Azazel gives a roar of frustration, trying to throw off the clinging figure, which has his arms pinned to his sides. The Colt goes spinning out of his hand. Without pausing to think, Dean dives after it, scrabbling amongst the dirt and weeds until his fingers find that familiar wooden handle, and then turning to aim directly at the struggling pair.

It’s only then that he sees who the bright figure is.

The last time he saw his father, he was a bloody mess on the ground, unrecognizable, a hellhound’s chew toy. But here he is again, meeting Dean’s eyes in the same frank way he always used to, one eyebrow raised in question.

Dean sets his jaw and nods, his finger tight on the Colt’s trigger.

John nods back and steps away.

The crack of the gunshot is deafening, even with the howling of the wind. The bullet hits Azazel in the heart, and he falls to his knees, screaming as the crackling white light engulfs him, flickering over his skin. Then he slips sideways and falls heavily to the ground, where he lies still and silent except for a few last flashes of light.

Dean turns immediately, searching for the bright figure of his father, struck with the sudden fear that he’s already vanished. But he’s there, smiling more widely than Dean ever saw him smile in life.

“I did it,” says Dean. His vision is blurring, and he doesn’t think it’s entirely due to his head wound. “I did it, Dad. I killed him.”

“Good,” says John, his voice a ghostly echo on the wind. “Now go take care of your brother.”

Dean tears his eyes from his father to look towards the crypt, panic rising up within him. The crypt door is still cracked, and black smoke is still rushing out, but Sam seems frozen in the act of pulling it open. Dean silently curses Azazel again, for costing him time, for forcing Sam to spend a single extra second as a demon’s meat suit.

“Now, Dean,” says John’s voice behind him. “Go!”

Dean obeys, taking off towards the crypt without a backward glance. He calls out to Sam as he approaches, but just as before, Sam doesn’t appear to hear him; he continues to stand there, his hand locked on the door of the crypt, inching it further and further open. Dean runs directly up to him, and places a hand on one of his shoulders.

“Sam?”

Sam’s head whips around so fast Dean jumps. In the moonlight, his eyes are bottomless pits of solid black, half-hidden behind tangles of hair.

“Sam can’t play right now.” The words emerge from Sam’s mouth, but they are not spoken in anything resembling his voice. Dean shivers, but keeps his eyes firmly fixed on those demon-black pits.

“Sammy,” he says. “Come on. Send this black-eyed bitch packing, will ya? I want to talk to you.” Sam begins shaking violently, an inhuman growl tearing from his throat, his face twisted almost beyond recognition. Dean tightens his grip on Sam’s shoulder, steadying him. “I want to tell you I’m—I’m sorry,” he says, his voice breaking. He refuses to consider the possibility that Sam can’t hear him, and plunges on, “I shouldn’t have freaked out at you like that, I’m sorry, it was stupid, I was just—I thought—”

Sam’s face suddenly relaxes, though the rest of his body remains taut as a steel cable. The black dissipates from his eyes, leaving them pure white; it takes Dean a moment to realize they’re rolled up into his head, as if looking inward, to where he must surely be waging a terrible war against the demon possessing him.  

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is so hoarse as to be almost inaudible, but it’s definitely his. Dean thinks he has rarely heard a sweeter sound.

“Yeah, Sammy,” he answers, bringing his other hand up to smooth Sam’s hair away from his face.

“You’re here?” asks Sam. The disbelieving tone in which he says it hurts far worse than being thrown into the gravestone.

“I’m here,” Dean manages to say.

“The Colt,” says Sam urgently. “You got the Colt?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it, Sammy,” says Dean, unable to help grinning a bit. “Found your hiding place. And I killed Azazel. He’s dead.”

“Good,” rasps Sam. “Now you gotta kill _me.”_

Dean’s hand stills where it was running through Sam’s hair. _“What?”_

“Meg,” says Sam, squeezing his eyes shut. His face twists again, though this time it looks like an expression of pain rather than demonic rage. “She’s got me, I can’t fight her off. Shoot me, kill her. Then you can close the hell gate.”

“I’m not gonna do that, Sam,” says Dean flatly. He digs his fingers even more deeply into Sam’s shoulder, as though he could separate his brother from the demon if he just pulled hard enough.

“You have to,” Sam whispers, tears trickling from behind his closed eyelids.

“No, I don’t have to,” says Dean. He leans forward until his forehead is touching Sam’s, scrunching up his own face and speaking through gritted teeth. “Cause you’re going to fight her off.”

“I can’t,” says Sam.

“Yes, you can,” Dean insists. “Come on, man. We’re all right here with you. Me and Dad—and Mom, too.”

And, impulsively, Dean seizes the amulet hanging around his neck, pulls it off, and slips the cord over Sam’s head.

*S*P*N*

Sam can’t feel much besides the burning black smoke swirling around him, but he feels the amulet slip over his head. He feels it settle against his chest, right over his heart, warm with his brother’s body heat.

 _Dean’s here,_ he tells Meg. The words seem to blow out of him at gale force, forcing the smoke back, creating a space for Sam to breathe again, to stretch, to revel in his brother’s presence.    

 _You think that means anything?_ she hisses back, but he can feel her fear. _You think he’s here for you? He’s here to stop the gate opening. You’re causing problems again, Sammy-boy._

 _Dean’s here,_ Sam repeats, even stronger now. _My big brother’s here. He’s gonna rip your lungs out._

These last words come out like a hurricane, like a tornado; they spin through Sam’s body like a cleansing breeze, and the smoke is torn to shreds by their passing, forced up and out like sparks through a chimney.

The next thing he knows, Sam is on the ground, his cheek pressing into prickly dry grass. Every muscle is his body is aching as though he’d been doing training drills for hours, and his throat feels sore, raw, and blistered. There’s a howling in his ears, and his vision is still obscured by black smoke, swirling around him angrily, as though looking for a way back in.

“Sam? _Sam?”_

There are hands grabbing his, strong arms pulling him upright, and Sam wants nothing more than to collapse into those arms and never move again.

But there’s something he has to do first.

“I’m okay, Dean,” he says, turning to face the crypt door. “Just need to fix this.”

With that, he begins pushing against the door Meg forced him to pull. His abused muscles scream in protest, but he throws all of his weight against it, and slowly, slowly, the door scrapes over the ground, back towards the crypt.

There’s a moment of complete silence. The wind stops. The howling ceases. The black smoke of the escaping demons seems to hang immobile in the air.

Sam heaves against the door again, and it scrapes backward another millimeter.

Instantly, the howling starts up again, even louder than before—but this time, it’s as though a giant vacuum has been placed at the mouth of the crypt, for the wind is whistling in the other direction, and the smoke is being sucked back in, until finally, with a last screech of rusty hinges, the door slams closed, and the air is calm and clear again.

Sam’s knees give way, and he slides helplessly down the rough stone of the door. He doesn’t make it to the ground, though, for that pair of strong arms is there, encircling him, supporting him. Sam drapes his own arms weakly around Dean, resting against him.

“You okay, little brother?” Dean asks after a moment, pushing Sam back to examine him.

“I’m fine,” says Sam, trying to burrow back into the circle of Dean’s arms. To his surprise, Dean lets him.

“Hey Sam,” says Dean after another moment. “In case you didn’t hear me before. I wanted to tell you that I’m….I’m, uh—”

This time, Sam pulls back of his own accord, peering into the little of Dean’s face he can see in the moonlight. “I heard you,” he says softly. “Me, too.”  

Dean thumps his shoulder. Sam can see him grinning, and doesn’t mind at all that the thump sends pain radiating through his sore muscles. Before he can say anything else, though, a faint light catches his eye.

Dean sees him staring, and smiles again when he sees what Sam is looking at.

“I told you we were all here with you, didn’t I?” he murmurs.

Sam can’t tear his eyes away from his father’s face, glowing palely against the night.

“Thanks, Dad,” he whispers. “For...for being here.”

The ghost says nothing, but nods to him, then to Dean. Then the glow fades until he disappears from sight completely.

Sam and Dean stand there, shoulder-to-shoulder, for a long time, until Sam’s knees get weak again.

“Come on,” says Dean. “Let’s get back to the Impala.”

Sam merely nods, and follows. A faint light is starting to tinge the eastern sky, so they’re at least able to see their way around the gravestones as they trek back through the cemetery, back across the broken railroad, back to where the Impala is waiting. Sam opens the passenger door and slides into the seat, while Dean slides into the driver’s side. Sam settles back, thinking that no armchair, couch, or bed could ever be quite this comfortable.

“So,” says Dean, fitting the keys into the ignition, but not starting the car yet. He sounds oddly hesitant, and doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes when he turns to look at him. “The demon who killed Mom is dead.”

“Good riddance,” says Sam, watching him.

“So it’s over,” says Dean. “It’s done with.”

Sam frowns, confused. “So, what?” he asks. “Are you done hunting?”

“No,” says Dean. “ _I’m_ not.” He finally looks up at Sam, eyebrows raised, as if expecting a response, but Sam is still at a loss as to what the question is. Dean sighs. “I mean, when I picked you up in Palo Alto it was only supposed to be until we found Mom’s killer.”

It’s Sam’s turn to look away. “You want to take me back there?” he asks in a flat voice.

“No,” says Dean quickly. “But—I thought you were planning on going back to finish your law degree, and I figured—”

Sam can’t help it; he laughs aloud.

“What?” Dean demands, looking annoyed now, but this only makes Sam laugh harder. “Shut up, bitch,” he snaps. “What the hell is so funny?”

“Sorry,” gasps Sam. “It’s just, I’m pretty sure I don’t really want to go into law anymore.”

“Oh yeah?” says Dean, looking wary, but sounding hopeful. “What do you want to do, then?”

Sam grins. “I thought I’d go into the family business.”

“What do you mean?” asks Dean.

“You know,” says Sam. “Saving people, hunting things.”

Dean starts to grin, too. “All right, then,” he says. He turns the key in the ignition, and the Impala’s engine roars to life. “We got work to do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! I can't believe it!
> 
> Just want to say thanks to everyone who's read, kudo'd, bookmarked, or commented on this story. I hope you've all had as much fun reading it as I did writing it!
> 
> If there was a particular chapter, scene, or line that you liked, or even if you have just general comments about the story, please, tell me your thoughts. I'd love to hear from you!


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